


Stages

by mrsdaphnefielding



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Contemporary AU, F/F, Opera AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-02-26 16:14:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 61,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2658323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsdaphnefielding/pseuds/mrsdaphnefielding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If you're going to be my ex-lover, you'll have to be more convincing than that."</p><p>Helena is an ambitious soprano moving up. Myka is a mezzo soprano who still can’t quite believe she has stumbled into a stage career. Cue the music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the world of opera (I put the blame on hermitstull, who challenged me to it. And on apparitionism, who kept enabling me when I talked about it).  
> I've always wanted to write an opera story, and I have always shied away from it because it is not the most approachable subject, and also because I've worked in the trade myself for a while, and  
> I love it dearly, so there is the chance of me becoming somewhat obnoxious about it.  
> Also, there were two plot ideas for this setting on the table and I couldn't really settle on just one of them, so this is "Opera 1". (At some later point, "Opera 2" might follow.)  
> Because it is not the most readily approachable setting, there will be a lot of lengthy chapter notes, with background information on works, places and conventions, in case you would like to know more (the story should read just fine without it, though). I will do my best to include links to all works mentioned, and if there is some terminology that cannot be skipped, I'll try to catch that, too. (If anything remains unclear, please ask.)

__

* * *

 

 _Che lieto giorno_  
_Che contentezza!_  
_Qui d'ogn’intorno_  
_Spira allegrezza._

(Mozart, _La finta giardiniera_ )

 

 

The air outside smells like summer.

As if in reflex at the whiff of wheat and lavender, the tenor next to her pulls up his shirt collar.

"Sam, isn't it?" Myka asks him with a smile, even though she would not have to. She has studied all the biographies on the website beforehand, even his, and he is a last minute replacement. He nods, and he looks at her with polite interest, just long enough to gauge whether she could be a useful contact on the way further up.

"If you get those looks, it means you're moving up," Rebecca had told her during their last lesson, before Myka had boarded a plane with a one-way ticket from Toronto to Paris, and then to Marseille.

"It's bad manners," Myka had sniffed, and Rebecca had given her half a laugh and looked up at her with something close to sympathy.

Sam has sung Belfiore before, in Stockholm - Myka makes it a point to read liner notes down to the fine print - so technically, he does not even belong here, in the junior line-up. Sure, they have all done studio productions before, concerts, the lower rounds on the competition circuit, but this is the first big festival production for most of them. It is just the up-and-coming show in Aix, but it is the up-and-coming show in _Aix_.

Myka takes another glance out of the window to her side - it is not bigger or cleaner than the windows of the practice rooms back in Toronto -, and she still cannot believe that she is here.

Behind them, behind the seven chairs next to the piano, members of the festival body are moving in and out of the rehearsal room and Myka looks back down at her own pristine score. She twists the cap off her water bottle, twists it on again and tries to relax her throat. There is one patch, between g sharp and a, that feels tight. Perhaps it was the air on the long flight, or perhaps it is the jetlag, but it does not feel like it is supposed to, not like she has trained it to feel.

She stops herself before she can go through a scale under her breath; she does not want to seem pretentious.

"Pretty impressive, isn't it?"

Startled, Myka looks up to find a man about her own age leaning onto the empty chair next to her. He smiles broadly, and there is no gauging in his gaze at all.

"Your first year?"

Now it is Myka who is hesitating. "Not for you, then?"

He shakes his head. "Second." It does not seem to have dampened his enthusiasm. His smile, impossibly, widens, and it is disarming. "Let me guess... you are singing the spunky maid?"

"No. I'm the mezzo," Myka volunteers. She looks at his well-defined arms where he is still bracing himself on the back of the chair. Orchestra, she guesses. "Double bass or brass?"

He blinks. "Trombone," he confesses then. „I’m in the Tchaikovsky.“ He stretches out a large hand.

"Pete, stop chasing the meat!"

Myka is caught with her hand stuck mid-air because Pete raises his arms above his head in defense. "I wasn't doing anything!"

"Like hell you weren't." A redhead just this side of scrawny comes barreling down the main aisle. "I lost far too much sleep getting you out of trouble last year, so how about we don't even get into trouble this year, hm?"

"Don't listen to her," Pete pleads with Myka. His smile is still disarming.

"Don't listen to him," the redhead counters as she joins them. She seems to be perpetually out of breath, with bulging pockets and thick-soled sneakers. At the closer distance, Myka can see that she is young, but not as young as Myka would have thought.

"Claudia, you really have - "

But Myka does not find out what Claudia really has, since the door opens to admit a disheveled man in a disheveled shirt, who sends a whisper through the room. Immediately, the air cracks with the nervousness of a new production.

To Myka's left, Sam straightens.

"Mr. Miller," he says, standing.

But Hugo Miller, score underneath his arm, brushes right past him. "I haven't been Mr. Miller in forty years," he says, not unkindly, while he takes a seat at the piano and opens his battered score.

"He's not one for formalities. Word has it he had a life-altering experience in Dame Vanessa's wardrobe in Covent Garden," Claudia mutters. "Back in '75."

"And life-altering could only mean so many things in '75," Pete mutters back, but Myka can hear them anyway.

"I'm simply Hugo," Hugo Miller proclaims, just like everyone told Myka he would do. "And we'll be making some music together. All right?"

Around Myka, everyone straightens in their seats. So does she.

The only empty chair remains the one to Myka's right.

The British singer who is listed as Arminda has made it to finals at _Cardiff Singer of the World_ and will be a few days late, if she shows up at all. Myka supposes that if she wins Cardiff - and if the woman's aloof headshot is anything to go by, she probably has her sights set on nothing less – there will be a replacement. Or a lot of attitude.

Myka has not heard of Helena Wells before, but there are a lot of names in her age group on the European circuit she has never heard, despite her best efforts to the contrary.

As Adwin, her old repertory coach, used to point out, "You need to know the shark pool, if you want to swim with them!"

Rebecca had always protested. "I am not teaching marine biologists!"

Myka had not entertained the thought of an international career in either field at that point, and yet here she is, with her scuffed dress shoes and a still unmarked score, and with her headshot - done by a friend of a friend on a studio stage during lunch break - printed in the program book next to the $2000 portrait of a perfectly coiffed Helena Wells.

There are five more photos in the book. Sam - he is the romantic lead, Belfiore - does not look as young as in his headshot any longer. Opposite him, as his aristocratic lover Sandrina, sits Amanda, a statuesque blonde who makes Myka wonder how the costuming department will ever sell her disguise as a humble gardener.

There is the second tenor, who is singing the pompous bailiff, the one who will chase after Amanda's not so humble gardener persona. That leaves the two very fresh-faced singers - even from Myka's perspective - sitting across from Myka as the bickering servant and chambermaid.

Myka herself will take on the lovelorn young knight Ramiro, while the elusive Helena Wells will star as the bailiff’s temperamental niece, Arminda.

Myka is no stranger to singing boys' roles. "That's going to be your fate, I'm afraid," Rebecca had said. "You may not be a pure lyric, but you're tall and lanky and the business has become so much more about selling looks than just voice. You'll probably spend much of your stage career in pants."

Myka finds pants to be very comfortable. To her, the far more incredulous fact is that she might actually have a stage career.

Hugo clears his throat, squints at the score and flexes his fingers, once, above the keys. "Everyone from number one."

This is it, then. Myka opens her score, flips to the opening ensemble number, intends to relax her shoulders.

If anyone had told her a year ago that she would be sitting around a piano with Hugo Miller, in Aix-en-Provence, with the ink on her diploma not even dry yet, she would have laughed. Yet here she is.

Outside the window, lavender and gold and green seem to move in time with her breathing. It is probably the jetlag catching up with her, but she is here, she is in Aix, and it is summer.

 

 

* * *

 

Chapter Quote:

 _What a lovely day,_  
_What joy!_  
_Everything around here_  
_Breathes happiness._

_La finta giardiniera_ (1775) is an early Mozart opera of the sentimental comedy variety. It showcases three couples who struggle to find their way (back) to each other at the mansion of the local bailiff. Each couple represents a different musical style:

There are the leads, Count Belfiore (tenor) and the Marchesina Violante (soprano), who embody the new 'natural', sentimental style of the 1760s onward. They are ex-lovers; he believes he has accidentally killed her and is now planning to marry the bailiff's niece, Violante is, however very much alive and lives undercover as humble gardener "Sandrina" on the bailiff's estate. To complicate matters, the bailiff is after "Sandrina", and the bailiff's niece isn't as unattached as she claims to be.

Up next as couple No. 2 are Arminda (soprano), the bailiff's niece, who might best be described as high-maintenance femme, and her ex, Ramiro (mezzo), who is still pining away for her (let's just dub him "the lesbian"). They are a homage to the old opera seria style with contrasting arias, flowery prose, languishing lovers' complaints and wild, temperamental outbursts. Ramiro was originally written for a castrato (the heroes of the old style) and is currently generally cast with a female mezzo-soprano. Arminda dumped Ramiro to climb up the social ladder by marrying the Count Belfiore, while Ramiro, in very lesbian fashion, simply can't get over Arminda.

Couple No. 3 is made up by Nardo (bass), Violante's faithful servant, who also poses as a gardener, and who is trying to woe the sassy chambermaid Serpetta (soprano), without much success at first, since Serpetta's plan was basically to land the bailiff and become lady of the house, only now the bailiff is after "Sandrina" and Serpetta is not amused. Nardo and Serpetta belong to the buffo-style characters: comic relief, sassy best friend, etc. with song-like, strophic music.

There is a lot of sopranos in there, because there are a variety of different styles when it comes to sopranos (and all voices): lyric voices (Sandrina); heavier, more dramatic voices (Arminda); light, agile soubretta voices (Serpetta).

For this story (no, I have not given this a disproportionate amount of thought *cough*) I picture Helena as a soprano somewhere between lyric and dramatic (think Harteros, early Caballé, early Naglestad - going on lirico spinto) and Myka as a mezzo-soprano that is also a little heavier than a sheer lyric type (think Barcellona, Donose or early Troyanos).

Apropos lyric mezzos (other than HNNNG): those are the singers that usually get cast in the so-called trouser roles, as in male parts to be sung by female singers. Some of those roles were written for women, some of them were originally done by castrato singers. I'm not picky. It's like lesbian heaven with music and making out with lady sopranos (just see the mezzosexual tag or the Alice Coote tag on Tumblr for further enlightenment).

The[ festival of Aix-en-Provence](http://www.festival-aix.com/) is one of the big French summer festivals (the other one being the Chorégies d'Orange), established in the 1940s. Much of it is open air (rather unusual for opera), and next to its big productions with star power, there is usually a junior production for new talent on the side (they actually did _La finta giardiniera_ for that in 2012).

 _La finta giardiniera -_ Synopsis, background information and libretto in English (and French, and Italian and German): [thank you, harmoniamundi, for uploading your booklets](http://www.eclassical.com/shop/17115/art84/4734284-ef4de1-902126.28_Digital_Booklet.pdf)!

Sample productions: I'd go with the fun, flashy [2006 Dörrie production for Salzburg](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLC6DD2FBE9A8D1CB8), or with [the classical Drottningholm](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=INle-jj1vYo) by Järvefelt from 1989. And, of course, there is the [2012 up-and-coming from Aix](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IHTIL7BVSXo) with a nice look at the outdoor scenery (even if the character staging is a little odd).


	2. Chapter 2

_Ah che gira il mio cervello,_  
_va balzando qua, e là._

(Mozart, _La finta giardiniera_ )

 

The work lights are still off when Myka enters the rehearsal stage. A row of dusty neon bulbs high overhead and a green sign reading _sortie de secours_ are the only sources of light in the windowless space. It is not as if she would be that early, the rehearsal is about to start in less than an hour. And Myka prefers to be on time, and well prepared. The score under her arm has a few new marks - phrasing advice from Hugo Miller, and if Myka were the kind of person to fawn over the stars of their very own circus business, she should probably be squealing about it. But Myka is not that kind of person. She has little patience for attitude - "but you cannot expect everyone to be as diligent as you are", Rebecca has schooled her more than once - and refuses to be impressed by anything but musicianship.

She gets along well with Hugo, even though she cannot help but wonder how much more he might get done if he were a little bit more organized. They have already worked through her first aria, and Myka is much more impressed by his unpretentious musicianship, by how he knows just where to let her breathe and where to anchor a line, than by any of the genius whispers surrounding him.

Myka does not believe in mystical talent. Myka believes in hard work.

She moves past worn set pieces and racks of clothes with their telltale stale scent of long storage. The low light throws the layers of scuff marks and scrapes on the rehearsal floor into relief, here and there covered by bits of colored mark tape. And even Myka cannot skip that small, dizzy moment of awe in walking across so much history.

How many productions have taken shape here before? The steps of which singer might she be retracing, unbeknownst, right now?

At the head of the room, past the piano, past the large directing desks, Myka spots a familiar redhead bent over a small table to the side.

"Not good. Not good!"

"Good morning," Myka volunteers, and she succeeds in making Claudia jump.

"Don't sneak up on me that!" She squints at Myka. "And what are you doing here at this hour? Is this your quirk?"

"My quirk?"

"Every singer has a quirk. I learn them. I deal with them."

"Being on time for rehearsal?" Myka does not care if she sounds a little prim.

"More like wandering about beforehand. Just like Artie." Claudia glances past her, to the end of the hall. "Costuming isn't here yet, to fit you with your rehearsal outfit. So..."

Now Myka does feel a little self-conscious about her time of arrival. She shifts the score in her grip and gestures.

"Can I help you with that?"

"Nah, almost done. I got it." Claudia looks at the dismantled percolator in front of her, then at Myka again. "Besides, you don't offer to help the Assistant Director if you want to be taken seriously."

When Myka looks at her blankly, she sighs. "You are new to this, aren't you?"

Myka tries not to bristle. "I've done productions before."

Myka watches as Claudia assembles the percolator with quick fingers, replaces a broken piece of plastic with a toothpick and some duct tape, and tests the mechanism.

"The food chain." Claudia replaces the lid and whistles on two fingers. "You're a soloist, not an intern, so when the coffeemaker isn't working, you don't offer help, you throw a tantrum instead."

"I'm not a diva," Myka protests.

Claudia snickers. "I like you, Bering, but the diva types will stampede right over you."

Myka straightens. "As long as they come well-prepared for rehearsal -"

The head of a young man pops up from behind a piece of scenery. "You called, Claudia?"

"Got it running, Nick. Now get to that first pot, pronto, and pray that Nielsen doesn't arrive before it's done!" To Myka, she mutters, "Artie without coffee in the morning is no man you want to work with. Or for."

Artie Nielsen is many things, as far as Myka knows. He has been, for decades. He is one of the big names in his directing generation, too big for the junior production at Aix. Myka would have expected him to do the main event instead.

She looks around and does not know where to sit. She perches awkwardly on a desk, score in hand, and watches Nick prepare coffee, watches Claudia run about and argue with people on the phone.

“Still catching up on notes?”

Sam is standing in front of her, Myka hasn’t heard him approach. He nods at her score with a smile that is a tad too smug. It goes well with his cravat.

“I’d like to hear Nielsen’s pitch first.” Amanda follows suit and pulls up a chair from the directing table. “If his take goes against Hugo’s…“

Myka keeps looking at her score. Sam walks over to the piano, plays a chord and hums under his breath. He does it a second time, a third, and the sound becomes smoother.

Myka smiles into her notes.

“They’re all just human, and they all need to work on their breathing.” That is another one of Rebecca’s catchphrases. “Everyone needs to work on their breathing. All the time.”

So does Sam, Myka concludes, even if he has sung his role before, and even if he is very talented. It takes work, and yet more work, to make a voice gain shape and balance, and each of them, no matter their attitude, has to get up every morning, and breathe.

Only then, there is the chance at one of those magical nights, when everything feels organic and seems to flow effortlessly, without any strain, and when even the air seems to move differently around one's body when walking offstage in the end. But that kind of magic is, again, the result of much hard work. And Myka knows that she can work hard, it has brought her here.

Once, in Toronto, she attended a master class of Dame Gwyneth Jones, and the air around Dame Gwyneth had been crackling and shifting without any effort at breathing whatsoever, even when she had not been singing. But she is the only exception Myka has ever met, and it is probably due to the decades that Dame Gwyneth has spent working hard, or the fact that Dame Gwyneth always seems to be onstage, even when she is lining up in the cafeteria.

The air is calm here. It is Aix, but the laws of physics apply in Aix, too. Sam is still playing chords and humming under his breath and Amanda is massaging her jaw, while the bustle around them increases.

Finally, Artie Nielsen arrives, a somewhat disheveled man in a crinkled shirt with an armful of papers - Myka notes that at least as far as appearances are concerned, he and Hugo harmonize well - who looks around the rehearsal space with disapproval.

“I asked for a ballet floor. Why is there no ballet floor?”

“Budget,” Claudia says. Her nod sends Nick scurrying to Nielsen's side with a mug of coffee that he accepts without any acknowledgement.

“Not budging,” Nielsen grumbles. “Call them. They know how I work. I always work with a ballet floor.”

"And now there are budget cuts," Claudia repeats calmly. "I already called, they are checking the depot, but you can outline the concept without any kind of floor.”

“Sure, why don’t we all float, when we’re already at it?” Nielsen is still disgruntled, but it is obvious that Claudia is not intimidated by it.

Myka stand hastily when he drops the folders and papers onto the desk where she has been perched. He does not acknowledge her, either.

“Fine, the concept,” Nielsen huffs. “We’ll do 1920s.” He nods at the singers around him. Todd – who sings the servant – and Kelly – who sings the chambermaid – have arrived in the meantime, as has Bennet, the tenor who sings the bailiff. Helena Wells is still in Cardiff, it seems.

“We’ll do 1920s because it’s pretty,” Nielsen continues with a scowl. “And because people are shallow and enjoy pretty things.”

That seems to be the end of it for him, but Claudia is quick to jump in. “And, as you said, the setting raises issues of class within the work, and it allows for a perspective on industrialization versus nature, on the women’s movement –“

“And nobody will get that, anyway,” Nielsen cuts her off. He addresses the singers again. “We’ll block through most of the first act today, so that I can see what kind of work I can actually do with you.”

It is Claudia who then waves over the set and costume designers, who both seem unfazed by Nielsen’s abrasiveness, and who pull at folders and papers to lay out the different stage sets and wardrobe styles for the singers.

“A countryside mansion wedding,” Amanda mutters, while she and Myka get fitted with rehearsal costumes, cordoned off by clothing racks and a chipboard set piece. “With me getting hired for the event landscaping. It does make sense, I suppose.”

She has to stand still while she is tied into a corset and Myka, who is grateful that she simply has to slip a shirt over her head, thinks that Amanda looks even less like a humble gardener now.

"And with both of our characters knowing that it is our exes tying the knot..." Amanda nods. "I can get behind that. It's easier to pull off than playing it all ingénue, don't you think?"

"I guess so." Myka tries not to glance down at Amanda's bare shoulders.

Nielsen’s idea is not that easy to pull off, though.

Nielsen, in sneaker soles, is quicker than his frame lets on. The first aria is Myka’s, a piece about being burnt by love and not wanting to fall again.

“But you are still in love.” Nielsen has crossed the rehearsal stage and is standing at her shoulder, closely, as she is trying to sing, to move. “You are so much in love that you are willing to watch her marry to someone else, just to see her again!”

Myka feels her shoulders tense, she stumbles.

“I can’t see it in your body.” Nielsen moves right along with her, soundless on his feet. “I need to see it. This –“ His hand touches lightly between her shoulder blades: precise, a physician's touch. “This is abstract, detached. Your body knows nothing of the love you are singing about.”

Myka does not want to be in love, she wants to sing.

“Too kempt,” Nielsen says, and Myka has barely launched into her next phrase.

She cannot sing, she cannot focus on her sound like this. It is Mozart, and no phrasing is as kempt and balanced as Mozart.

From the chairs next to the directing desk, all the other singers are watching. The répétiteur at the piano stops playing – Myka can only see a long fall of dark hair that eventually stills – and Myka’s feet feel too heavy, her throat tight.

“We move on to the next recit,” Nielsen declares.

Myka’s cheeks are burning.

After her, Bennet merely marks his first aria, as does Amanda, and Myka feels stupid for having sung in full voice.  

“Of course everyone would linger to see the arrival of the bride,” Nielsen reasons as he tries to set the scene for the entrance of the bridal couple, all the singers huddled around him onstage. “With the exception of Ramiro, who knows the bride better than he should. – But everyone else, yes. The entire household has been preparing for this day for weeks! The bailiff even had the gardens redone! So who wouldn’t want to get a look at the bride, to see what the fuss is all about?” He waves at Claudia, impatiently. "The bride! – What are you waiting for? An extra week of rehearsal time that will magically fall from the skies?!"

“Great,” Myka hears Claudia mutter as she trots past Myka, just behind the set piece – it will be a car later – from which Arminda is supposed to emerge. “It’s day one, and I already have to cover for absent sopranos?”

Nielsen motions at the répétiteur to start the next recitative before they have even had the chance to move into position. Myka hears the first chords among the shuffle of feet, sees the fall of hair of the répétiteur - she introduced herself as Abigail - tumble forward again, sees Claudia straighten behind that set piece, and it's Myka's cue to move offstage.

"Of course you want to see Arminda, that's why you are at the mansion in the first place," Nielsen had explained, ever impatient. "But just before she steps out of that car, you realize you can't take it, and you rush off."

Claudia draws breath to mark Arminda's first line, but before she can utter a note, someone rushes in, pushes in front of Claudia, and takes the small, decisive step onto the scene.

_"Questa tardanza è una somma increanza!"_

Helena Wells has arrived at last. She is wearing jeans and she has to look up the tiniest bit to meet Myka's eyes, but that is about as far as Myka gets in her assessment before Helena Wells curls a hand into her shirtfront and then shoves her aside dismissively, only to push past Todd and Kelly, too.

_"Egli dovea prevenire il mio arrivo."_

It is just a simple recitative during a first run-through, but Helena Wells does not seem to be the type to take prisoners. Myka looks at the way she sets her feet, as if she were indeed stepping out of a fancy car into a decorated courtyard. Myka straightens out her shirtfront.

It is Sam's first aria up next and Myka has to admit that he sings it beautifully, but all eyes stray to the side, to where Helena Wells sits, crossing and uncrossing her legs, contemplating her nails for a brief moment, and tapping a foot on the floor.

Nielsen, wearing a scowl, gestures for Myka to hide deeper inside the set, and Myka moves offstage: she has forgotten, for a brief moment, that she is to be out of sight.

Arminda’s first aria will follow, and Nielsen does not call for Abigail to stop playing, but he does keep glaring at Helena Wells as if he is uncertain whether she is the best thing that could have happened to his production, or whether he should strangle her.

Helena is unperturbed, she launches into her aria. She does not mark, either. Her voice is arresting, with an edge of metal, bronzen and iridescent, that Myka would not have expected from her credits. It is a little uneven and Myka is not sure whether it is that Helena has had no time to warm up, though even as the tone becomes smoother, that trace of metal remains. It is not a voice of sheer beauty, but it does draw the listener in.

Sam, as Arminda’s suitor, is meanwhile taken into a chokehold and gets his shirtfront unbuttoned, and by the time the aria ends, even his hair is tousled. He and Nielsen are the only ones not laughing at the scene, but Nielsen still does not call for a stop.

The four lovers stumble into each other in the garden next.

“Closer!” Nielsen yells from the director’s desk. “I need to see the conflict in your bodies. Give me one big set of Twister!”

Myka, who feels left hung out to dry running on improvisation like this, puts one hand on Sam’s shoulder, and then Helena is throwing herself at her to get past Myka at Sam. The moment is a jumble of quicksilver energy and shifting air, a brush of black hair and the push of jean-clad legs against Myka's own, and Myka counts and focuses on her breathing.

Nielsen does not look that grumpy any longer by the time Abigail plays the last chords of the act with a flourish.

“If you're going to be my ex-lover, you’ll have to be more convincing than that,” Helena Wells quips at Myka while she straightens and stands. Her eyes are very dark, and her breaths come quickly in a way that Rebecca would not approve of. The air around her seems to vibrate and crackle, and Myka is so unnerved that she does not come up with a reply.

“I take my time building a character,” she could have said, she reasons later. Or, “I will wait to see where Nielsen wants to go with this. You have not even heard his pitch yet.” Or perhaps, “Well, we _did_ break up for some reason, didn’t we?”

By the time the evening rehearsal ends, Myka just wants to bury her head in her pillow.

“So, the audience price?” Sam asks Helena smoothly – too smoothly – as he passes her on the way out. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Helena says, just as blasé.

Myka has not even thought to check the website to see whether the Cardiff competition is over, or who has won.

"Especially since so often, the overall winner also takes the audience prize," Sam adds.

“Not this time,” Helena replies with a dazzling smile.

"You won the audience prize at Cardiff?" Kelly asks with big eyes. "That is amazing! - Shouldn't we celebrate this with a drink? You haven’t even met the whole team yet."

“I haven’t unpacked yet, either,” Helena says, and she motions at the two suitcases behind her. “I apologize, but I will have to decline.”

“I’m out, too.” Amanda shakes her head with sigh. “I still need to talk to my agent.”

Myka does not even have an agent yet. Myka just likes to sing, and right now, she wishes that she had stuck with her teaching degree. All her colleagues seem to know each other, and seem to have places to go or people to call. Myka only knows that she should probably curl up with her score some more.

“It’s late, anyway,” Sam says while he draws up the collar of his jacket. “And I still want to look at my notes from today. – Same as you, hm?” He looks at Myka as if he wants to tell her that she really could use some more study time.

And Myka will do that, but she needs something to eat first. It earns her yet another condescending smile when she orders her food in a French Québécoise enough that she has to repeat her order, twice. In the end, she finds herself sitting on the back steps of the guesthouse in the dark, not hungry any longer and breathing deeply against a sudden onslaught of homesickness.

“Hey.”

Pete the trombone player is sitting down on the worn doorstep, an arm’s length away. He looks at Myka, looks at his wapped sandwich, then at Myka again.

“You look like you could use a bite.” He sighs, then holds out his sandwich to Myka. “This, and perhaps this?” He slides a little bit closer and pats his shoulder. “Standing offer. It’s waterproof, even.”

Myka snorts and toys with the sandwich wrapping as she blinks against the sight of the stars sprinkled above.

They sit in silence for a while, Myka picking at the sandwich and Pete at a little distance, looking up into the night sky along with her. Only when Myka starts eating in earnest, he says, “I was overwhelmed last year.” He is still looking at the sky. “First day with Salonen conducting, and he dressed me down in front of everyone.”

Myka takes another bite. Then she asks, “What did you do?”

Pete shrugs. “I thought it couldn’t get worse, right? I practiced like crazy, but the next day, my breathing was off and it was just as bad. So after that rehearsal, I thought ‘what the hell’ and challenged a horn colleague on the Xbox instead. And I won. - And the next day, Salonen was happy with me.” He moves in, just for a moment, to bump his shoulder against Myka’s. “They did hire me for a reason. And the same goes for you. Things will work out.”

Now Myka does rest her head against his shoulder, just for a moment. “Thanks, Pete.”

“And even if not – they still make this amazing beef and artichoke sandwich just around the corner.”

“The sandwich is really good,” Myka has to admit. She breaks it in half and Pete is not above accepting part of it back.

“You don’t happen to play any Xbox, do you?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote:
> 
> Ah, my head is spinning,  
> it's jumping all over the place.
> 
> I made up the rehearsal stages in Aix, but most rehearsal stages I know look like that, so I hope I'm not too far off.
> 
> Dame Gwyneth Jones (of Wales) was one of the most important heavy dramatic soprano voices of the 1970s in particular. Her biggest production was perhaps the 1976 Chéreau Ring at Bayreuth, where she sang Brünnhilde.  
> She is still very active, she is teaching and she starred in "Quartet" in 2012. Her singing is not unequivocally admired, but most everyone will concede that she is a fantastic performer.
> 
> Abigail as a répétiteur is clearly inspired by Abigail at the piano in apparitionism's wonderful "Soon"; I cannot unsee Abigail at the piano now.
> 
> Assistants (or more commonly interns) taking over as stand-ins during rehearsals is fairly standard practice, especially when there are no understudies around. It's also fairly common for singers to just mark arias during staging rehearsals.
> 
> Rehearsal schedules are generally 3-4 hours in the morning and 3-4 hours in the evening, with costume fittings, vocal coaching, etc. in between. 
> 
> Esa-Pekka Salonen (longtime conductor of the LA Philharmonic) conducted the - fantastic! - 2013 production of "Elektra" in Aix (I don't know if he ever had any issues with any trombone players, or how he would resolve those).


	3. Chapter 3

_Che stupor, sono insensato,_  
_Resto immobile, mi perdo,_  
_Io non so che mai pensar._

(Mozart, _La finta giardiniera_ )

 

Sweat runs freely along Myka's forehead, with drops pooling at the bridge of her nose as she bends down and stretches one thigh. The muscle is warm and responsive, and Myka shifts her stance a little, pushing herself further. Her soaked shirt clings to her back, the fabric worn soft. Gravel moves underneath her soles and her shadow falls across the ground, across the stone steps that lead up to the guesthouse, and it is a sharp outline in the morning sun.

A second outline moves closer, merging briefly with hers.

"Morning."

It is more of a hum and Myka looks up to see Helena Wells stepping around her with an amused expression, hair pinned up in a loose twist, an empty tea mug in hand.

"Morning," Myka gasps between two gulps of air. Strands of hair are plastered to her face and a drop of sweat clings to the tip of her nose, clings and falls. It leaves a small, dark circle on the stone steps to her feet.

Helena Wells has already disappeared into the house.

Steps sound behind Myka and when she turns around again, there is Sam, in running shorts, a towel hanging from his neck with the ends at the exact same length.

"Also a runner, huh?"

His shoes are less worn and less dusty than Myka's.

Myka nods. "Which route did you take?" She still needs to push each word onto her breath. "I didn't see you."

"I don't run outside." Sam holds onto the ends of his towel and shakes his head. "Treadmill. You never know what's in the air."

Myka glances at her shoelaces, neon-bright and frayed at the ends, and covered in dust. From somewhere, there is the hum of an early bee.

"It's important, though." Sam leans against the banister for a moment. "It's the only advantage we have over the Europeans."

Myka blinks, against the sweat under her brows, and because she does not like what Sam is getting at.

"Being fit," he explains. "They don't work out as part of the job. And the market is tight, you need to be fit."

Sam's shoulders, Sam's chest are clearly geared toward the market. Myka has to think of the rather European Helena Wells all but diving to climb over her in yesterday's rehearsal.

"I'm not sure that's a national thing."

"It's cultural." Sam jogs up the stairs, then pauses again and gives her a once-over. "Someone from my agency is in town tonight, by the way. I could give you a few pointers, perhaps introduce you?"

"That would be great," Myka says.

She should feel more elated. Gaining representation and working towards a contract is what she is supposed to do this summer, next to singing this production, unless she wants to be back home come winter and give poorly paid extra classes in music school to fill the gaps in her concert calendar.

She does not think that is the worst that could happen, though, particularly when the rehearsal day shapes up to be trying again. She tries to show up a little later, but she is still early enough make Claudia raise an eyebrow at her, and to see Nick set up the first pot of coffee before Nielsen arrives.

Artie Nielsen is a man of great patience for scenic detail, but no patience for singers. He starts with the very last scene, the third act finale that barely lasts more than two minutes, including the recitative that leads up to it. - "Since I've got everyone here this morning, we'll do all of the act finali," he huffs, as if it were a personal insult that later today, some of the singers are slated for rehearsals with Hugo.

Myka is used to rehearing scenes out of order, but she finds it difficult to work on the very end before she even knows how her character is supposed to relate to the others and to their stories.

"Why do we do the last scene first?"

It is Todd who asks, who then probably wishes he had not.

"Because it is the shortest of the finali, and you are less likely to aggravate me completely before we have it nailed down!"

"But how are we supposed to do the end when we do not know yet how you want us to play it?" Myka wants to know. Todd, with his ears reddened, shoots her a grateful look. "Are we even happy, or --"

"If you would just listen to the music!" Artie jabs a finger at Abigail at the piano and makes her play the brief piece. "You are singers, how can you not listen? – It's Mozart! Here, take those four floating bars in piano on ‘rallegrar’: This is a full stop in a chorus that is so brief, so blindingly straightforward. Here, you get an inkling of the underbelly, of the doubts just underneath the surface. Think of the very end of _Figaro_ , of the bars that lead to the final _presto,_ or of the ending of _Così_ , the sudden swerve in the vocal lines among all that gleaming C major. This is the same composer, don't forget that!"

"But how do we do it?" Myka asks again, doggedly. "Do you want us to play happy, or unhappy -"

"Both!" Nielsen thunders. "Don't dissolve it! - And it is not what _I_ want you to do, it is what the music tells you to do. If you would just listen!"

Myka bristles at the implication that she does not listen to the music. She has listened to _Finta Giardiniera_ so many times that she has memorized most of the other parts in addition to her own. And, fine, she has only just received her concert diploma, but she has worked with different directors already. She has been told "enter left, exit right" and nothing else, she has been told to "feel” every scene, and she even has been seated next to giant stuffed seagull once, and been told to "communicate with it". And she has done as she was told.

But Myka has no idea whether her Ramiro is supposed to be happy when Arminda asks to marry him at the end. She cannot know because she has barely spent a minute in his shoes, much less in scene with Helena's Arminda, so she does not know yet how their story will play out.

Nielsen is not impressed with her, or with anyone else, either.

"I could get more response out of a group of paper cutouts!"

"Good luck with making those sing," Bennet mutters, standing forlornly in the center of the scene. His part may be the easiest here, because he is alone in the end and does not have to think about whether he is happy or unhappy about getting married. He looks at Amanda with longing, and even here Nielsen cuts in.

"Don't you think you are a little bit happy that things did not work out? That your fantasy of the enchanting gardener Cinderella will never turn into the mundane reality of a marriage?"

"I'm guessing he is not married," Todd whispers behind Myka's back.

"At least not anymore," Kelly whispers back, from where she has jumped into his arms. They seem to have decided that their characters are happy about ending up together.

Myka is standing next to Helena, who has an arm linked through hers but is staring at Sam, who in turn is dipping Amanda into a romantic movie kiss.

"Hideous," Nielsen declares. "Hopeless!"

He moves on to the first finale and Myka breathes a sigh of relief. This is a longer piece of music at least, and it will give her a chance to build up to something and interact with the others. She does not get farther than her first phrase, though.

_"Contino, permettete..."_

"Stop!" Nielsen yells, and Abigail lifts her hands from the keys. Nielsen points at Myka. "I can't see what you are thinking here. - What are you doing?"

Myka looks around herself, where Sam and Amanda, the ex-lovers, have just run into each other, only to be surprised by Helena, who is Sam's - the Count's - new bride.

"I am here to introduce myself to the Count," Myka says. "And before I can do that, I recognize _her_." She points at Helena. "And then I am so distraught that I forget about it."

"You are _distraught_?" Nielsen repeats."You are mad! You are jealous!!– And why do you even introduce yourself to the Count?"

Myka blinks. "Because it is the polite thing to do."

"The wedding party is huge!" Nielsen has walked onto the stage again and is moving in between them. "More people than you could shake a stick at. And your link to the wedding is 'bride', not 'groom'. One, because you are friends with her uncle, and two - off the record - because she used to be your lover. So why would you follow the Count here into the garden, and start introducing yourself? What are you playing at?"

Myka wants to say, "You tell me, you are the director," but that is exactly the kind of petulance she prides herself not to indulge in. She is a professional.

Next to her, Helena suddenly straightens. "She is about to tell him about me." She takes two steps closer. "I realize that she is going to tell him." She is in between Myka and Sam now, positioning her body like a buffer.

"What are your exact words?" Nielsen prompts, and now he is chasing a detail, and he is smiling.

" _Count, allow me -_ ", Myka recites.

"Allow me _what_?"

"To introduce myself. - But..." Myka looks back and forth between Sam and Helena.

"You do the same thing in the second act finale," Nielsen reminds her. "You go after the Count..."

"...and I challenge him to a duel." Myka nods. She knows her part.

"Because you want Arminda back," Nielsen says."Desperate times, desperate measures. - But..."

"But I want her back before that," Myka interrupts him, and she feels a first puzzle piece click into place. This Ramiro, when he is singing about having escaped love's clutches, will be lying. This is an angle that allows her to work, finally."I want to tell him that I am Arminda's lover, and that she is mine."

"I beg your pardon," Helena drawls.

"That I want her back," Myka amends and barely suppresses the urge to roll her eyes.

Helena nods and takes another, small step that leaves her closer to Myka. "Of course I am not giving up my marriage plans," she muses, playing along. "But also, I cannot help but be a little impressed that you have the courage to confront the Count." She looks at Myka, assessing her. “Especially since courage was probably not your most prominent feature while we were together.”

Myka sputters. “Excuse me?!”

“Otherwise it would not capture my attention like this,” Helena reasons, and Myka is not sure whether she wants to concede the point – it is a good one – or hit her over the head with the nearest prop.

Nielsen nods, satisfied for now, which sends Claudia scurrying to jot down things in the directing score even as the rehearsal continues.

Myka’s next entrance does not get interrupted as she intercepts a raging Arminda. She is careful to remain behind Helena since she does not want to end up in a chokehold like Sam did yesterday.

“Why do you keep holding me from behind by my shoulders in every scene?” Helena complains at the next stop. “It feels stilted. - Besides, I could shake you off quite easily.”

Myka swallows the reply that it is called _acting_ for a reason. “I am trying not to block your singing, or your view of the conductor.” She does not point out that _that_ is called common courtesy. Myka does not care if Helena has won all the prizes Cardiff has to offer, she is insufferable.

“Like this, no one will ever believe that we were an item at some point." Helena shakes her head. "I do not care if I cannot look out front for a phrase or two, or whether the conductor only sees my back here. We need to tell a story."

"I thought we did that with our voices," Myka says testily.

Something around Helena's mouth shifts and hardens. "I thought that was called a concert career."

"Again from _Amoroso mio Contino_ ," Nielsen orders.

Myka moves back to her mark and wonders whether taking Helena into a chokehold would tell enough of a story for her liking.

"You look like you could use some chocolate," Pete comments when Myka walks into the dining room of the guesthouse late in the evening. "A lot of chocolate," he amends. "And a funny, good-looking trombone player to cheer you up!"

Myka allows herself to sink onto the bench beside him. "You are not entirely wrong." She has dressed nicely, nice enough to talk to an agency representative, and she hopes that her tiredness is not showing too much.

"Pete!" Claudia pulls out a chair on the opposite side of the table and even in the low light, she looks far more harrowed than Myka. "No coercing my singers with chocolate!"

"I have some for you, too," Pete offers, and Myka looks on as Claudia accepts a candy bar with a mock frown and a sigh.

"Sugar bribes!" She takes a bite and then looks at Myka. "He has a history with it. Last year, there was this soprano."

"Really hot soprano," Pete readily adds. "She did Papagena in the Magic Flute."

Claudia peels the wrapper off the candy bar. "She did everyone else, too."

Pete shrugs with a grin. "I wasn't above sharing. – The soprano, not the chocolate."

Myka coughs, not sure how much of this she wants to hear.

"Tell me if he gives you any grief. Or chocolate," Claudia says to Myka, but the way she smiles at Pete makes it clear that she is far more protective of him than she is of Myka.

Myka wonders whether this is her cue to excuse herself, to leave the two of them to it, but when she moves to stand, Claudia holds her back with a hand on her shoulder. With the other hand, she waves over Todd and Kelly, who have just appeared in the door.

" _Giardiniera_ support group," she declares. "Over here!"

"Nielsen as grumpy as usual?" Pete wants to know.

"I'm not sure," Myka says. "But I'm getting a better idea of how he works."

"Artie is an acquired taste, I know." It takes Claudia no time to organize a bottle of wine and a few glasses.

"I'm still not sold on the concept," Kelly quips as she slides into a seat next to Myka. "Study singing, they said. Go to Europe, they said. And I still end up in a maid's costume!"

Pete flashes Kelly a smile. "I am not commenting on that," he declares. "But you have my vote to dress all maid characters in designer robes of your choice."

Kelly regards him for a moment. "Points for trying," she then decides.

Todd looks down when he laughs, the tips of his ears a little red.

"Nielsen's star is sinking a bit, isn't it?" Kelly asks. "I mean, he is a big name, but it is too big for our production --"

"Are you doing rehearsal critique?" Amanda sits down with them and places a water bottle in front of her on the table. She has scrubbed her face clean of make-up and wears an oversized shirt, and she looks a bit like a marble statue that has climbed off its pedestal after hours. Her hair is curling around her face from having been pinned up throughout the rehearsal day, and Pete is suddenly very quiet.

"Yes, what is it with Artie Nielsen doing the _Giardiniera_?" Amanda wants to know. "I know his style is a little dated, but..."

Claudia straightens. "Just what do you mean by dated?"

"Just that his aesthetics are on the conventional side," Bennet comments from behind them, leaning against the wall. "He isn't into innovative concepts, and his 'giving you a motivation for everything' approach is rather '70s."

"And it still works." For all her grousing, Claudia is quick to defend Nielsen. "Concept styles come and go. - Artie knows his craft and he knows his music. His work is always solid."

Bennet curls one corner of his mouth in a smile. "Will I still get a glass of wine if I say that 'solid' isn't the same as exciting?"

"It's up to the singers to make it exciting." Claudia pours a small glass and slides it across the table.

Only after taking a first sip, Bennet responds. "I find it lazy to leave that to the singers."

"Who would complain about being given space, unless they have no ideas?" Claudia says, just as blasé.

"Anyone want a knife to cut the tension?" Pete mutters under his breath, but just as Myka wonders whether the entire production time will be like this, with snide remarks and the singers worrying about selling themselves well enough, Bennet dips his head and smiles.

"Well played," he admits. He takes over Myka's seat as Myka stands because Sam is in the doorway and motions her over.

"Ooh, private study time?" Pete whistles. "Is that why you've got on the fancy shirt?"

"Business, Pete," Myka reminds him. " _My_ business."

"I could smack him over the head for you," Amanda offers, and now Myka wishes she could stay, and have a glass of wine with them instead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Quote:
> 
> What bafflement, I am out of sorts,  
> I remain frozen to the spot, I lose myself,  
> I don't know what I should think.


	4. Chapter 4

_Oh che umor, che donna strana  
io mi perdo in verità._

(Mozart, _La finta giardiniera_ ) _  
_

 

Come morning, Myka still has no management, although she does have a fancy business card to show for her evening - an evening that consisted mostly of Sam discussing his upcoming solo recital at the young artist forum here in Aix, at Hôtel Maynier d’Oppède, and about his contract options for autumn.

He did invite Myka to dinner, but the representative from his agency paid the entire bill in the end, so that does not quite count. The representative did not seem all that interested in Myka - he said that he only handled male voices, and Myka is not sure whether that was merely a professional or also a personal assessment. He has given her the contact for women's voices, though. He has also remarked that the line-up is competitive, but Myka is competitive, too.

Sam did invite her for a nightcap afterwards. Aix is a student town, and the bars and clubs are nestled close to each other, with squares of light and strings of music spilling out into narrow streets at night. It was just one modest drink, both of them mindful of the rehearsal day ahead.

"You should call my agency, absolutely," he told her. "They have a strong focus on belcanto, and I think that is where you are headed."

Now, there is no music in the street. The morning sun is throwing the lines and corners of the house fronts into sharper relief, and in hurrying past, the steep slope of a roof tower or a red and white brick pattern remind Myka of the old quarters of Québéc. But Aix looks more worn, showing its layers. At the first chance, Myka wants to see the amphitheater of Arlès, and the thermae, the Cathedral - 14th century - and Saint Jean-le-Malte, 13th century. So far, she has only seen, from outside, the swung metal and concrete of the new Théâtre de la Provence, which is not where the _Giardiniera_ will take place, and on her first evening, she has snuck into the famed courtyard of L'Archevêche, the heart of the festival. Their _Giardiniera_ will not happen there, either. That will be out at the Domaine de Grand St. Jean, a twenty minute ride out North into the countryside, in a 16th century mansion with a park.

"And wild boars," Bennet muttered when he complained about it, and about the fact they will only do their last week of rehearsals at the actual site, where they will have to be carted by bus on a dusty country road. "Because there is literally nothing else out there!"

'Nothing else' amounts to an old chapel and an open air stage and the chance to sing next to an actual renaissance palace, and Myka is looking forward to all three. It is a bit more open than a courtyard stage - which she has done before, on a Purcell project in Toronto, where she's sung Dido - but Myka knows her voice carries well.

She is early, again, and Claudia raises her head and winks at her while she has a phone pressed to one ear, a finger stuffed into the other, and barks at whoever it is at the other end of the line.

They do have a ballet floor now, which Nielsen has called "ratty" in a huff, and he did not protest when Kelly and Bennet asked for knee protectors. Myka is grateful about her pair, too. She does not mind the physicality of the production, although she would prefer to be given a reason or a motivation before Nielsen starts a scene. His approach of letting the singers figure out their stance onstage - "organically," as Claudia echoes in staunch defense of Nielsen's methods - is time-consuming and leads to most of them standing around a lot while Nielsen works one-on-one on a detail. It gives Myka very good insight into the other roles and how she will relate to them - if one listens in and does not text home, like Todd, or make eyes at the cute wardrobe intern, like Bennet - but it is lengthy and exhausting.

The only one not wearing knee protectors is Helena.

"I cannot move authentically when I work with something that I have to take off again for the actual performances."

Myka had rolled her eyes at the method acting approach - in opera, of all places - and had not bothered to hide it. She wonders just how authentically Helena will move, for a socialite of the 1920s, with sore knees.

"Did you secretly get into Mixed Martial Arts over there?" Myka's sister Tracy asks when Myka sends her a snapshot of her gear.

"At least I can still run in the mornings," Myka replies.

Helena does not run, but despite Sam's observations on Europeans, the way her body seems to run at a higher voltage eclipses all of them - even the statuesque figure of Amanda - as soon as she steps onto that ballet floor, ratty as Nielsen may deem it. Myka has to admit that she envies Helena's physical presence, even as she finds it unnerving.

It only gets worse when Nielsen starts to work - or rather, lets them work, she corrects herself surly - on the scenes between Ramiro and Arminda.

"No, this does not work," Helena declares, yet again, and her bluntness is another thing that unnerves Myka. It is not that Helena does not have a point - she does, most of the time - but she does not take the time to be polite about it. Or to be polite, period. Helena has a habit of ordering people around, much like her Arminda, or perhaps that is a byproduct of her acting approach.

"I need to see your struggle," Nielsen insists, who wants Helena to fall to her knees mid-scene. "You just caught your future husband fantasizing about the gardener, and then Ramiro here shows up gloating, and he has just dug up more dirt on your Count."

Myka looks on as Helena frowns.

"It's the image." Nielsen gestures at Bennet in the background. "He is upright, he signifies the law - he is about to suspend your wedding. And Ramiro is standing because he has the upper hand right now. And I need you _not_ to be upright here, to signal the imbalance of the moment."

Helena's frown deepens. "It still does not make sense for me to fall to my knees."

"Would you like my knee protectors, perhaps?" Myka asks politely, but it is not polite at all. If Helena drags her stage attitude into every personal interaction, Myka can practice Ramiro's gloating a little bit. For authenticity.

"No, thank you," Helena says with disdain, and it is very much Arminda. "I just tore into Belfiore and cried - but I would rather drop dead before he sees me weak." She points at Myka, but she does not look at her.

Nielsen nods, slowly. "Then offer me something else that takes your axis out of the game."

Helena thinks for a moment, then she takes a chair, sits down as one would sit down on a throne, and Myka does not know when the scene actually starts.

_"Un sogno sarà questo."_

Helena's back is to Myka, her pose rigid. She maintains Arminda's pride, her head held high, but it is obvious that she struggles to do so. Her shoulders are hunched up, and her voice contains too much air.

 _"Oh, unfortunately it is true, my dear Countess."_ Myka nonchalantly leans against the wall, places a foot flat against it. She fans herself with the file she is supposedly carrying, until Bennet snatches it out of her grasp.

_"Well, it says here that the Count has allegedly killed a marquise Onesti..."_

Helena tries to get to the offensive piece of paper. _"Nol crederete -"_

 _"Ah, non credete,"_ Myka corrects automatically.

"What?" It takes Helena a moment before her head snaps around and her irritated glare is enough to make Myka blink. "Did you study Arminda, as well?"

"No." Myka can do haughty, too. "But after a while, you simply remember all the parts."

"Unless you are focused on your own part, even when there are no words to sing." Myka has hit a nerve, and Helena still sounds like Arminda when she adds, "Also, you could simply know that it means the same thing."

"It's not what's in the score," Myka retorts, and she manages not to add that she holds an advanced degree in Italian, thank you very much.

"Right, why would we care about the spirit of a phrase when we can worry about the philology of it?!" Helena circles Myka. "I thought it was Cavaliere Ramiro, but perhaps you are better cast as Bibliotecario Ramiro?!"

"You're not supposed to get an MA in literature on my rehearsal time!" Nielsen yells from beyond the stage line. "Neither of you! - But keep that energy, and start from the top. - Bennet?"

Bennet makes a show of looking between Helena and Myka, and Abigail already supplies the chords to start the scene once more.

_"Ah che son stato un sciocco!"_

Helena hurries to her mark, the image of hopeful energy, with all trace of anger wiped from her expression. _"Uncle, the Count already regrets having upset me..."_

And Myka now breezes onto the scene, though not quite as cockily as before. She can still feel the tension echo along her spine. _"Sir, I've received notice from the Magistrate in Milan..."_

"Myka, good!" Nielsen comments while he motions at Abigail to keep playing. "Keep that bit of reluctance."

Helena's knuckles are white on the armrests of her chair when she whispers, _"This has got to be a dream."_

Nielsen keeps Myka onstage during the next aria - it is Bennet's - and has her watch as the bailiff blusters and poses and cancels the wedding, while Arminda tries in vain to get in a word and glowers at Ramiro, or perhaps at Myka, in between.

"This way, it is a show put on for Ramiro." Nielsen seems satisfied. "Because the Podestà does not really want to cancel this prestigious wedding, but now that Ramiro is waving around a warrant, he has to pretend he cares." He takes a few steps and Myka is, again, impressed by his speed. He waves her aside. "You want revenge, but when you see Arminda vulnerable here..."

"I'm a pushover," Myka supplies without much enthusiasm.

"Try it." Nielsen nods.

Bennet grandly walks offstage as Abigail finishes the postlude to his aria, and Myka squares her shoulders and approaches Helena.

_"Arminda, darling, you should know-"_

_"Shut your mouth, you liar!"_

Helena is instantly in Myka's face, eyes ablaze.

"Stop!"

Nielsen's soles squeak softly against the floor, and Myka takes a deep breath. She hates to be interrupted like that, when she has barely started a scene.

"Just what do you want her to know, Myka?"

But Myka is prepared for Nielsen's questions this time. "That I am not a cheating, spoiled Count who kills his girlfriends when he is through with th- "

"I don't care what you know!" Helena interrupts, her voice sharp. "I don't care if it is true, I simply do not want to hear anything _you_ have to say."

Now they are shouting, improvising their scene. On the other side of the rehearsal stage, Abigail takes her hands off the keys.

"That much vulnerability in front of _him_?" Nielsen challenges Helena.

"I am desperate!" Helena throws up her hands. "If I don't have to hear it, I don't have to know it, and I can make it go away."

"Very mature," Myka mutters.

Helena leans closer and cants her head to the side. "Oh, really? Who is the one with the petty revenge schemes because he cannot accept that I have moved on?"

"To marrying a murderer who is making eyes at the gardener?" Myka scoffs. "You really traded up there."

"And it kills you that I still want him more than I want you, doesn't it?" Helena is standing very close to her now and her silky tone makes Myka want to hit her, or do something else entirely.

"You just want his money." It comes out a little breathless.

"You keep telling yourself that."

"Then why are you still talking to me? - Because indifference looks different."

Helena balls her hands into fists. _"Shut your mouth, you liar!"_

Abigail hears her prompt and segues back into the recitative.

_"You don't understand, I am -"_

_"...hated by my eyes."_

Helena turns away, turns her back to Myka, and Myka imagines that Ramiro would be dogged enough to run after her and try to get Arminda to face him again.

_"About your love -"_

_"You don't deserve it."_

_"Remember..."_

_"No."_

Still Helena refuses to look at her, she wipes Myka's hand - a gentle touch, even in its insistence - off her shoulder, once, twice.

_"Listen to me - "_

Helena lifts one hand, high, and stills for a moment, but she will not turn around.

_"I'm burning with rage!"_

"No, no!" Nielsen calls after Helena, who has stormed off the makeshift stage. "No storming out!"

"But I need to get away from him!" Helena protests before she has even made her way back to where Nielsen and Myka are standing.

"Away, yes, but not like this." Nielsen shakes his head, his brows furrowed in what Myka has come to read as perfect concentration. "I need cracks in your veneer. Not a grand royal exit. You are still shaken, and we need to see it."

Helena points at Myka. "But he does not have to see it."

Myka curls and uncurls her hand, brushes her fingers against her palm where she can still feel Helena's shoulder, bone and warmth through the thin top the wardrobe assistant has given her as a rehearsal outfit.

"Yes, he does," Nielsen says.

Myka nods. "There needs to be something there to make Ramiro sing a five-minute aria on hope after this, or I will look like a complete idiot."

Helena crosses her arms over her chest. "Is that so."

Myka glares back at her. "We need to sell being in love by the end of the opera." Unprofessional, that is how Helena is acting, and it irks Myka that she depends on her to make her own role portrayal work.

Helena gives her a cool look. "And I am attempting to find an authentic reason for that very happenstance."

Quickly, Nielsen steps in, before Myka can knock Helena's arched brow back into place, verbally or not. "You two can figure that out over a beer after hours," he decides. To the group, he calls out. "Break! I need some coffee, and then we'll go into the second finale."

Sam is waiting for Myka at the line that marks the edge of the stage and holds out a cup of coffee. "I find it always helps to know the entire scene." He says it loudly enough to make Helena halt her steps.

"Thanks," Myka says, and she is not sure whether she only means the coffee.

"I called my management again." Sam takes a sip of his own mug, something with the scent of herbs. "I put in a word for you. Linda wants to meet with you, you just need to set up a date."

"Thanks," Myka says again, slightly overwhelmed. From the corner of her eye, she can see Helena brush past them.

Sam winks at her. "It's the second act finale now. You will get a break and she can launch herself at me for a while."

"I can handle her," Myka declares and then she burns her tongue on a sip of too strong coffee.

But even the caffeine has worn off though by the time Nielsen pushes them through the finale for what has to be the tenth time.

"Once more from _Via amici, correte a volo._ \- Myka, your entrance!"

Myka's entrance, in this case, is driving a pretend car with bright headlights into a nighttime garden, where everyone is making out with someone whom they believe to be someone else in the darkness. Arminda has ended up in the arms of her of her own uncle - by the looks of if, Bennet is not objecting to having Helena draped across him - and the Count is trying to seduce the maid.

"As if I'd look anything like Amanda," Kelly protests. "Particularly if one is looking with their hands!"

Nielsen is unperturbed. "Such is the power of desire." He nods at Myka. "You, in contrast, are the arrival of reason and order."

"Of course she's the one to kill the fun," Helena mutters under her breath.

Bennet chuckles at that and Myka rolls her eyes at both of them across the hood of her pretend car. At least in a minute, she will get to berate Arminda - or perhaps it is Helena - again for causing all that nighttime chaos. She has done it about nine times tonight already, but she will enjoy doing it a tenth time, even if her limbs are sore, and her breathing takes a lot more effort to control.

_"Perchè tiranna cotanta asprezza?"_

She does not reach out to touch Helena, keeps her hands balled into fists as she yells at her.

Helena holds her gaze with that unnerving crackle, even on the tenth try. _"Oggetto odioso tu fosti e sei."_

She is still burning with intensity even as everyone else is becoming mellow with exhaustion. Myka feels stiff in comparison, disconnected from the scene, even before Helena mutters, matter-of-factly, "This does not work."

What most annoys Myka is that Helena is right - her Ramiro feels off in this moment, without a link to the energy on stage that Helena commands so effortlessly.

"Myka, too whiny." Nielsen comments from off the scene. "Bennet, too smarmy."

When Myka walks into the dining hall later that night, she makes a beeline for the table that Claudia and Pete, who puts a protective hand over his sandwich as he sees her approach, have claimed as theirs. Usually, a few of Pete's brass colleagues and some of _Giardiniera_ crew join them, but so far, it is only Pete.

"Are you worn out in a good or in a bad way?" he asks around another bite as Myka drops onto the bench next to him.

Myka just groans.

"Nielsen or Miss Cardiff?" Pete continues.

Myka closes her eyes. "Both."

Pete sighs. "You want some of my sandwich?"

"I want a hot bath and ten hours of sleep," Myka says. "And chocolate."

"What did I tell you about Pete and chocolate?"

Myka blinks one eye open to find Claudia staring down at her.

"In her defense, she did have to deal with a vengeful ex-girlfriend all evening," Amanda points out as she reaches the table. She holds onto her water bottle, but eyes Pete's sandwich. "So is there actual chocolate?"

Pete springs to attention. "I..."

"Don't even think about it."Claudia pushes him back into his seat. "And you don't get to put it on Helena Wells."

"Did you know she changed the billing to Helena G. Wells?" Kelly asks, with Todd and Bennet and even Sam in tow. She chooses the free chair next to Myka. "I heard it this morning in the festival office."

"She changed her billing?"Sam scoffs. "Did she win an extra initial in Cardiff?"

"But shouldn't that be a C, then?" Todd wonders."For Cardiff, I mean?"

"She got her degree at Guildhall," Myka points out. "If you're looking for a G."

"That would be quite a G," Amanda agrees, and she is still eyeing Pete's sandwich.

And not only has Helena graduated from Guildhall, London, she has also attended masterclasses with the all the Dames that matter: Dame Felicity, Dame Kiri, Dame Vanessa, even though none of them start with the letter G.

"Or perhaps she simply likes Gatorade," Pete says. "Which would make sense, with Myka being this worn out." He looks as if he would not mind that much if Amanda asked him for his sandwich.

"Who is worn out?"

Helena is standing behind them, her hands on the backrest of an empty chair.

A moment passes in awkward silence, then Kelly speaks up. "We are. We're wrecking our brains over a question only you can resolve." She gestures for Helena to pull up a chair. "What does the G stand for? - We noticed you changed your billing."

"My middle name."

Helena pushes a chair in between Myka and Kelly, so Myka can see up close how she draws a breath before she speaks. The entire table is looking at Helena expectantly and Myka wonders what it might be, perhaps Grace or Gwyneth or Gertrude.

"I won't tell you," Helena says with amusement. She pours herself a glass of water and takes a small sip. "In fact, I will never tell."

Kelly rolls her eyes, and Sam mutters something about Helena only wanting to make herself interesting.

"Most singers try to make their names simpler instead of more complicated," Amanda says, but Helena shakes her head.

"It's personal."

Myka can't help herself. "So you put it on the _billing_?"

Helena merely takes another sip of water and Myka is sure she hears Sam use the word 'pretentious'.

"A few of us still want to head out, try the beer downtown, perhaps go dancing," Pete says and points a thumb at a few of his orchestra colleagues. "Any of you want to come along?"

Todd and Kelly perk up, but Myka shakes head. "No thanks."

Helena leans back in her seat. "Well, I think it is a lovely idea."

"Great!" Pete rubs his hands together. "Sure you want to stay behind, Myka?"

"I'd much rather catch some sleep."

"Of course you would," Helena says.

Myka gives her a testy look. "Some of us have to produce an amenable sound with their throats in the morning, in case you forgot."

"Oh please, as if you'd have any trouble with that," Helen scoffs.

"I don't think we should –" Myka tries to say, but Helena does not let her finish.

"You really make a perfect Ramiro: all rules and no fun." To Pete, she says, "Count me in."

Myka cannot really tell whether Helena is teasing her or whether they have turned to preschool patterns now. Nearly everyone around her stands, so does Helena, but then she leans down again. "Come if you dare, Ramiro."

Myka rolls her eyes, again, because perceiving one's colleagues through their roles is definitely preschool. "Fine," she says then and grits her teeth. If the only way to work with Helena is through roleplaying, she will do that. And she will excel at it.

So despite her exhaustion, she is tagging along, like most of their group. She is not feeling that weary any longer by the time they are all nestled into a booth at a small pub and she nurses a tonic - Sam has lined up at the bar for her -, and listens to Pete arguing about food.

“Without pepperoni, it is not an actual pizza!" The colleague across from Pete – bassoon, if Myka remembers correctly – merely waves him off, but Pete is undeterred. “We can take this to the Xbox!"

Next to the bassoon player, Amanda chuckles, and Pete amends. “Then again, anything tastes pretty great when it comes with grilled cheese on top.”

Amanda draws her brows together and one corner of her mouth curls upwards. “You’re a deep thinker, for a trombone player.”

Pete puffs out his chest. “Trombones are the stand-in for the numinous. How’s that?”

Helena’s laughter is among the blend of voices now, a new tone in the chord that is becoming a familiar sound on Myka’s evenings. Perhaps this is what she will remember most of Aix, in years to come: the ebb and flow of the voices, mingling after hours.

Amanda leans back in her seat. “I’m more impressed that you know how to spell _numinous_.”

Pete, in turn, leans forward. “You know what they say about sopranos.”

“That this one could hit you again?”

Amanda looks at Pete, and then she looks at Myka.

“Oh, don’t mind me.” Myka reacts a moment too late, and Pete tries to kick her underneath the table. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Too relaxed to be your type?” Helena asks, close to Myka’s ear as she reaches to place an empty glass on the table, but her tone lacks the venom of their rehearsal exchanges.

Myka rolls her eyes, but only a little. “Right, because I take so well to the high maintenance types.”

Helena hums in amusement, she is still close enough to have Myka hear it, while Pete seems intent on defending the honor of trombone players at large. “We can take this to the Xbox,” he challenges Amanda.

“You’re on,” Amanda agrees without a blink.

Pete, however, does blink. “I am?”

“Did I mention that I have two younger brothers?” Amanda reaches for her water glass, and now she smiles fully. “Prepare to weep, trombone.”

Pete exhales slowly. He keeps glancing at Amanda, who has returned to a conversation with Bennet. “I am oddly excited,” he mutters.

“You are whipped,” Myka corrects him.

“What happened to going dancing?” Kelly wants to know.

“At this hour?” Sam asks. “I am slated for 10 a.m.!”

So are Myka and Helena, but Myka takes one look at the challenge in Helena’s posture, and makes her decision. “Sure, why not?”

Helena uncurls from her seat. “Aren't you already up past your bedtime?”

Before Myka can reply, Claudia sighs. “And that means I will go, too.”

Todd adds himself to the group, and Claudia complains to Myka on their way out. “It is definitely past _my_ bedtime, and I should be paid extra for governess hours!”

“Governess?” Myka slips her arms into her jacket, but the night is mild, and she takes it off again.

“One.” Claudia holds up a finger. “I think Todd likes Kelly, and production romances are messy, so I have to keep an eye on them.”

“I think Todd likes _you_ ,” Myka says, but Claudia holds up another finger.

“Two, I don’t trust you and Helena not to kill each other, given the chance.”

Myka thinks that this would not differ much from their rehearsal routine, and perhaps that is Helena’s angle in all this: to recreate the plot’s tension to feed off it onstage. Claudia reaches for a pack of cigarettes and Myka lets her go ahead, trying to stay away from the smoke.

“Perhaps we should try to get to know each other better.”

Helena has fallen into step next to Myka, the rhythm of her feet on the cobblestones a little quicker than Myka’s. “For the sake of the show.” She sounds tired now, mellow.

Myka looks ahead into the night as they walk on. “Shouldn’t you be trying to get to know Sam better instead, then?”

Helena does not look back at her, either. “And here I thought you were doing that already.”

That crosses a line, and Helena notices it. She amends quickly, “I am supposed to barely have met him. That works.” Now she glances at Myka. “You, however, I am supposed to know.”

For a moment, Myka wonders just how far Helena is willing to take this. "You could try this thing called _acting_ ," she suggests, and she does not sound as arrogant as she intended to. "Or don't they teach that at Guildhall?"

Helena sighs. "I simply want this production to work. - I need it to work," she admits, somewhat more subdued. "Don't you?"

Myka thinks of Toronto winters and underpaid extra classes, she thinks of the business card from Sam's agent in her pocket. Helena has walked up to Claudia meanwhile and then Myka sees her throw her head back as they pass a street lantern, and Helena is exhaling tendrils of smoke into the muted glow above.

The sound of soles against cobblestones is soon replaced by the thump of a bass that ricochets inside Myka's ribcage and drowns out the rehearsal day and its worries and sore knees.

Sam has not come along. The air is thick with sweat and the late night, and the exhaustion returns with a vengeance. Myka watches the throng of bodies on the dance floor through heavy eyelids.

"Don't fall asleep on me, Bering." Next to Myka, Claudia stifles a yawn. “Why did you say yes to this? Why did you have to say yes?”

Myka shrugs and nods at the bar, where Helena has lined up for a drink. “She started it.” She has to yell to make herself heard, and her throat is protesting.

“Your version of _Anything you can do, I can do better_?” Claudia shouts back. "And just how many verses are there?"

As many as it takes, Myka wants to reply, but then neither she nor Claudia say anything else because Helena has entered the dance floor, where Kelly is already happily whirling around.

Helena moves differently, less exuberant. Her body seems to take on more gravity with the music, sinking into it rather than skipping along on its surface. Myka takes in a slow roll of hips, turned to a set of stills by the flickering lights. It is a sequence of flashes: the slope of Helena's neck, the length of her thighs, the outline of her torso, everything a nonchalant fraction behind the beat. The tune is vaguely familiar, synthesizer and a scratchy saxophone phrase: rising fourth, rising fifth, falling third; rising fourth, falling tritone, and a male voice calling to the dance floor in laid-back French.

"Earth to Bering!!"

It is clearly not the first time Claudia has yelled it, and when Myka turns to look at her, she realizes that her mouth has gone dry.

"Where the hell did you just go?" Claudia wants to know.

Myka is saved from having to answer when Helena stands before them, slightly out of breath.

"I believe you said something about dancing earlier, Ramiro?"

She has to lean in close to be heard above the beat. Heat from the dance floor radiates off her body, and along her temples, Myka can see a fine sheen of sweat when the lights turn to white every couple of seconds. Helena's stance is challenging and Myka still wants to strangle her, but right then, she also just _wants_.

Helena takes a hold of her wrist, Myka claims it back, but she follows Helena onto the dance floor anyway and claims a space for herself. The beat pulses along her sternum, her spine, and she allows the music to carry her.

It is not singing, not as close as being the bow of the ship and cutting through the waters, blending into the music with the force of the rhythm. It is not the sheer power of being the sound.

The sound is running through her now, but she is not its source, she is not at its helm. She can simply let it take over. Her limbs are heavy with exhaustion, her mind already drowsy, and everything is smooth.

Among the maze of bodies that move around her, Myka singles out the curve of Helena’s jaw, outlined in a flash of light, the silhouette of her shoulders, the tilt of her hips.

Helena turns her head, then. Her eyes are half closed, but she smiles at Myka, and Myka can feel herself smiling back.

For a moment, truly everything is smooth.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Quote:  
> Oh, what an attitude, what a strange woman,  
> I am really getting lost.
> 
> \- Hôtel Maynier d'Oppède in Aix houses smaller festival concerts and recitals. 
> 
> \- Myka singing Dido refers to Purcell's "Dido and Aeneas" (there is also an Aix production of it on YT: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sdhoszxU1m0). Most well-known aria: Dido's Lament, "When I am laid in Earth".
> 
> \- The festival of Aix-en-Provence has various sites for productions and concerts, most famously the courtyard of the old archbishop palace; you can take a look at the sites (including the Domain de Grand St. Jean) here: http://www.festival-aix.com/en/node/337
> 
> \- Since there is quite a bit of opera text being quoted, I translated most of it for better reading flow and only left a few lines in Italian:  
> "Un sogno sarà questo.": This has got to be a dream.  
> "Nol crederete": You won't believe... vs. "Ah, non credete": Ah, don't believe...  
> "Ah che son stato un sciocco!" - Duh, I've been an idiot.  
> "Via amici, correte a volo!" - Come on, friends, hurry, quick.  
> "Perchè tiranna cotanta asprezza?" - Why so harsh, you tyrant?  
> "Oggetto odioso tu fosti e sei." - I still hate you. ("you were and are a hateful object/object of hate") 
> 
> \- Guildhall (Guildhall School of Music and Drama, London) is one of the best singing schools, period. Personally, I've never worked with a Guildhall alumna who wasn't downright amazing.
> 
> \- Dames: Dame Felicity Lott (*1947, England) and Dame Kiri Te Kanawa (*1944, New Zealand) are famous lyric sopranos, both mostly past their active stage careers, who are a also teaching. 
> 
> \- Singers streamlining their names for easier international access is an actual thing: a few years ago, baritone Boje Skovhus turned into Bo Skovhus. More recently, soprano Alexandrina Pendatchanska changed her billing to Alex Penda.
> 
> \- Club music: I went with Stromae's "Alors on danse" (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cQ0CqLh0-OU) , which was a 2009 billboard hit in several countries, including Canada. It's very simple, which is probably why it works so very well for certain purposes.


	5. Chapter 5

_“Lei mi chiama?”_  
_"Signor, no. – Lei ritorna?”_  
_“Oibò, oibò.”_

(Mozart, _La finta giardiniera_ )

 

Pete is going through what looks like his second helping of scrambled eggs and bacon by the time Myka enters the dining hall. He takes one look at the circles underneath her eyes and whistles.

"Look who has decided to join the mortal hordes!"

"Looking at your plate, it feels like hordes indeed." Myka only carries a cup of tea. "What happened to your gaming duel with Amanda?"

"Tonight." Pete heaves more bacon onto his fork. "Loser pays pizza for the team. - You coming to cheer me on?"

"Don't you have your brass guys for that?" Myka asks around a sip of tea. "Perhaps I should side with Amanda instead."

"Please." Pete rolls his eyes. "They're brass guys. She gives them one look, and they _all_ will side with her."

"True," Myka agrees. "And of course I'll be there. To see you getting your ass handed to you."

Pete shrugs. "As long as Amanda thinks it's a nice ass."

Myka takes another sip of tea. "I don't think she has anything to complain about."

"Heh." Pete preens a little. "Of course, it would be more of a compliment if you could open your eyes this morning." He squints at her and pushes the sugar dispenser in her direction. "Here. Put some more of that into your - whatever that is."

"Sage tea," Myka says, but Pete is already interested in something else.

"And now for the actual question, with how pale you are this morning..." He leans forward on his elbows. "Has Miss Cardiff turned you?"

Myka sputters. “What?”

"Sired," Pete clarifies. He points his fork at Myka. "Into a vampire." Then he cants his head to the side and frowns. "Is it still called 'sired' when it's a female vampire?"

"I could ask her," Myka offers.

"Tell her I won't put garlic on the celebratory pizza!"

At the moment, Myka does not want to think about pizza. She picks up a brioche because she knows she needs food, and sugar, but what she actually needs is sleep, although that need is outweighed by the smug knowledge of having stuck it to Helena Wells. Last night has equally been fun and terribly irresponsible, even though Myka has been careful to avoid alcoholic drinks and smoke. She has slept in as much as she could and her throat feels only slightly off. Still, her legs are protesting on her walk to the morning rehearsal.

"And look who's decided to join us," Claudia announces cheerfully, when Myka walks onto the set, and today, she is not the first.

"I'm on time," Myka protests.

"Amply," Claudia concedes. "But compared to your usual schedule..."

"How come you are so awake already?"

"Practice," Claudia says. "And I don't have to sing."

Sam waves her over to the seat next to him. "I missed you out running this morning."

"We did get enough exercise last night," Kelly says. She is still bouncing on her feet as if she did not miss any sleep at all and Sam at first looks a little put off, but when Kelly puts in a shimmy, both he and Myka are distracted.

Behind them, Helena walks into the room, sunglasses perched on her nose and a large shawl wrapped around her neck.

Myka smothers a smirk and even though her voice is a little off and she has to mark a few passages, she is content that Helena is not in great shape, either.

On stage, at a closer distance and without the shades, Helena’s skin looks near transparent, but even though her voice takes considerably longer to warm up this morning, there is the same uncanny intensity about her. It reminds Myka of someone running a fever and going on against better judgment.

Nielsen is working on Helena's big second act aria, a wild revenge piece with erratic leaps. A few of those are hit-and-miss today, enough to make Myka wince in reflex, and Helena herself is aware of it, her lips pressed into a thin line as Nielsen chooses to ignore it and tries to pace Arminda's rage instead. Even Sam, who is the focus of Helena's temper onstage, refrains from a mocking comment, perhaps because he is afraid she might strangle him for real.

They also repeat yesterday's scene, with Myka breezing onto the stage waving the paper from the magistrate. Helena fumes, but it feels brittle. She does not storm off this time, she stalks and pouts and gestures too much and Myka cannot get a handle on the exchange.

Nielsen is not happy. "Your focus is off!"

Myka needs a second longer to get her tired legs back to her mark to start the scene again. From the corner of her eye, she notices that Helena's movements are a slower, too, but Helena remains relentless even when she stumbles.

"Still no," Nielsen declares after the next try. "Better than yesterday, though," he adds, but when Myka's shoulders sag a little in relief, he glares at them both. "We may be getting somewhere, but we are no way there yet!"

Myka is glad for a bit of respite after that and she sips at a tea, next to the director’s desk, content to watch Helena and Kelly work on finding a connection as unlikely allies who both hold a grudge against Sandrina. The scene flows much better than the previous one and it irks Myka.

She worries at her lip when she drinks another tea in the break.

"It still does not work," Helena says to her, matter-of-factly, as she helps herself to a coffee.

"Mhmm." Myka nods and then she offers Helena the sugar she has just used to make her herbal concoction somewhat more palatable, but Helena declines and drinks her coffee black.

"This." Helena points between them. Past her shoulder, Myka can see Sam talking to Nielsen. "I gather that we could do with a bit more familiarity." Helena gestures to the side with her head and Myka follows her, trying to focus on the warmth of the mug in her hands and not on the sight of Helena's legs in the riding pants that are part of her costume.

She remembers Helena next to her, only hours ago, hips moving with the thump of a bass line, their bodies supple like warm honey.

"Familiarity," she repeats.

Helena lifts her cup, shifts it within her grasp. "It cannot be just rage. I am not yet certain how –" She shakes her head, frustrated. "There has to be something else."

Myka plays devil's advocate. "Well, perhaps you are over me, and I simply don't get it." She shrugs, chagrined that yesterday, Helena was willing to make her look like an idiot onstage, when today, she is asking her to fix this. "There are men like that."

"True," Helena agrees. "But Ramiro? He may be a tad on the stubborn side, but he is far too well-mannered for that. And there is still too much of an undercurrent. Also on my part," she clarifies. "Why do we keep arguing?"

For a moment, Myka is not sure whether Helena means their roles or themselves. "I think it's about _how_ we argue."

"The intensity," Helena suggests immediately.

"I was going to say, 'the bickering'."

"In the spirit of an old married couple?"

Myka shrugs. "They know how to push each other's buttons."

Helena taps a nail against her cup. "But it is not comfortable, it is raw. It is amplitude: kiss or kill. Anything as long as it is grand enough. – Precisely the energy I try so hard to find with Belfiore, but in vain..."

"But there need to be comfortable moments, too," Myka protests, because she cannot sell romance if she is supposed to yell and snipe all the time, but Helena has taken hold of her wrist and pulls her along.

"Let's run this through."

"Now?" Myka complains and blinks as they stumble out into the sunshine, onto dust and concrete.

"Of course now." Helena slips her shades onto her nose, gauges the distance between her and Myka and takes two steps further away.

Myka is still blinking into the light. "I should take a picture of you for Pete."

Helena peers over the rim of her glasses. "Pete has a thing for me?"

"Pete will be very disappointed that you have a shadow," Myka says. "He thinks you're a vampire."

Helena laughs. "Arminda having turned Ramiro into a vampire, we might pitch that to Nielsen."

"Or Ramiro having turned Arminda," Myka says doggedly, and Helena gives her a grin somewhere between fond and derisive.

"Into a librarian, I presume?"

Myka merely rolls her eyes and Helena smiles before she returns to the scene.

"Arminda could always rely on Ramiro -" She looks over at Myka and waits for her nod. "And now there you are, suddenly making my life difficult."

"And it's getting her attention."Myka leans against the wall, studying her pretend warrant from the magistrate. _"Signore, da Milano mi giunge adesso un foglio..."_

This time, Helena is not ignoring her or glaring at her. From beneath her lashes, her eyes follow Myka as Myka crosses the stage.

Myka chooses to walk closer past Helena, and a little slower. She almost brushes against her, but not quite.

Helena's fingers curl and uncurl, her tone is doubtful. She puts in more pauses and during what will be Bennet's pompous aria, her gaze flickers over to Myka more than once, while Myka is playing it cool.

_"Listen to me, Arminda, darling -"_

Myka sounds gentler now, not as petty as yesterday.

 _"...you damn liar,"_ Helena bites out, but this time, she plays it as fighting against tears.

 _"No, you're wrong, I am..."_ And Myka trails off as she reaches out to touch Helena's shoulder, slowly, and Helena does not recoil. Her shoulders rise, and fall, and for a moment, her own fingers hover close to Myka's hand before she steps away.

_"I hate you!"_

There is a stumble in her step as she stalks away and it throws Myka for a loop. It is just the moment Helena needs to be a little farther away, to have Myka scramble after her with purpose.

_"Listen to me!"_

And now, when Helena declares _"I am burning with rage!"_ it comes across as wild and broken, far more layered than yesterday. There is a split second more where they stare at each other, breathing differently than a minute ago.

"Well," Helena declares contentedly, out of the scene in a blink. "This might just work." She does not step away.

Myka clears her throat and remembers too late that this is not something she should do, least of all this morning."Yes. It works."

Nielsen leans forward on his elbows when they replay their approach after the break. "Yes! Yes, that's it!" He waves in the direction of Nick. "Intern, I commend your coffee. Give them more of it!"

Behind him, Kelly whistles under her breath when Helena lets Myka's hand slide off her shoulder. Next to her, Sam has stopped perusing his score and is staring at the stage with a bit of a frown.

Then Myka is alone on stage and segues into her big, languid aria. She debates whether she should mark, after last night. The bits of recitative still come out a little awkwardly, but Myka knows when the ritornello starts and she lets the air fill her lungs, when she feels her flanks expand, that it will work.

_"Beckoning hope, sweet companion of love..."_

She looks at the stage chair Helena has abandoned; she walks closer and runs a hand along its headrest. Only then does she sit down, using it as tangible link to Arminda as she sings of love.

Myka has worked with Hugo on the legato take on _"tu mi conduci in porto"_ – fa, two beats, downward scale, trill on la.

"It needs to wrap around you like your favorite, softest scarf," Hugo had said. "Or forget that again. Just remember it has a heartbeat. Mozart always has a heartbeat."

And Myka floats on the line, wings spread and carried by the subtle pulse of the music.

Around the director's desk, not even Bennet is looking elsewhere. Helena has sat down among the group, quietly, and the way she is smiling now echoes the music. Blossoming, is the odd first word that Myka's mind offers. Beckoning _. Lusinghiera._

Her smile slips under Myka's skin without effort, like music, and Myka feels herself melt away. She has to rein herself in and focus on centering her breath, but she wants Helena to keep smiling at her like this.

There is a moment of silence after Abigail has played the final chords. Nielsen merely nods, and Myka cannot curb a triumphant grin when she walks back to her seat.

"Sounds like someone is falling in love," Kelly sing-songs under her breath when Myka sits down next to her. Bennet snickers at that, Sam winks at her, and Helena is still smiling.  

"So it's internationally true that the mezzos always go home with the trombones," Kelly muses. Nielsen is already blocking the next scene: Helena and Bennet, and then Sam.

"Trombones? You mean Pete?" Myka needs a moment to react. "Trust me, he would go rather go home with an Xbox. Or with a sandwich. Any sandwich."

"I would not mind being part of that sandwich," Kelly mutters, and Myka is not sure she has heard that correctly, but then Kelly needs to head onto stage and Myka has an idea. Arminda could be the first to return for this scene: possibly catching the last bit of Ramiro's aria, or perhaps remembering their earlier exchange. She wants to run it by Helena first, but when Nielsen calls for lunch break, Helena brushes past her without another look.

Myka hangs back for a bit, but Helena is leaning onto the piano and saying something that makes Abigail laugh while she is looking everywhere but at Myka.

"Problem?" Claudia asks from where she is adding Nielsen's latest orders to the directing score.

"Not at all," Myka says and she hates how surly she sounds. She refuses to label Helena's attitude as a problem. The pattern continues in the evening: Helena arrives with Abigail, their heads close together in conversation, and does not bother to acknowledge Myka's presence even though Myka is sitting right in their path.

The first time Helena actually looks at her is on stage. They are working on the second act finale again and they have returned to "This does not work". Nielsen is not enthusiastic, either, and hollers at Nick to give everyone more coffee to get this scene finally off the ground.

Myka drives her pretend car again and Helena holds up her arms to shield her eyes from the pretend headlights, but any approach Myka takes towards her - a hand to her shoulder, again, or getting right up in her face - is met with "This does not work."

 _"You're the only reason for all this misery!"_ is Myka's favorite line to sing tonight.

Helena transposes a few of her phrases downward, she is not comfortable, either: Myka can see it in how she stalks through the scenery without a clear focus. But, of course, to Myka she will say, "This does not work", and it is one time too many.

"You do remember that we talked about giving our characters some undercurrent of affection?" Myka wants to know when Nielsen calls for a brief stop.

Helena tosses her hair back, raises her chin. "If you could manage not to sound quite so whiny, then yes."

"If you could manage not to be quite such a pain about everything, great!"

On impulse, Myka decides to ignore Arminda in the next try. She leans against her pretend car door and laughs at the mixed up couples, and then she crouches down next to a tired-looking Amanda, whose beleaguered Sandrina could use a chivalrous hand.

_"Perchè tiranna cotanta asprezza?"_

This time, she tosses the line back over her shoulder, barely dignifying Helena with a glance. Amanda looks at Myka gratefully and uses the momentum offered. Myka only needs to correct her stance and rise on one knee so Amanda will not tower over her.

"Myka, Amanda!" Nielsen calls from the sidelines. "Whatever you're doing, keep doing it!"

Myka is fine with ignoring Helena for the time being. She stays next to Amanda and throws all her frustration at Sam. She is challenging him to a duel, and up to this take, she has always done it measured, with the leveled blend of courtesy and disdain lifted from a classic King Arthur movie. This time, Myka is charging at him before she can think better of it.

_"Mio signor, non se ne vada,_

_un duello colla spada_

_lei non deve ricusar!"_

Sam's chest is solid underneath her hand, and Sam smiles just a little before his gaze wanders off, back to portraying the Count who has gone mad. And then Helena is between them, pushing them apart.

_"Please! Please stop!"_

Her fist curls into Myka's shirtfront and they stare at each other, at such a close distance that it gives Myka a little jolt. For a dizzying moment, Helena's eyes seem to eclipse everything else.

Then Helena stumbles back, wide-eyed as it registers for Arminda that her first, instinctive move in trying to prevent the duel has been towards Ramiro, and not towards the Count. It is a small detail, but Myka is professional enough to admit that it is a really good one.

Nielsen seems to agree because he yells at Claudia to write it down and in the end, he even ends the rehearsal five minutes early.

"Let's run this through again, shall we?"

Myka looks up from her score and into Helena's face.

"Now?"

"Of course now," Helena says with impatience. "The duel challenge does work nicely, but it will not carry the entire scene for us -"

"It's ten p.m.," Myka observes.

"Your point being?"

Myka sighs. "My point being that I am tired. And I promised Pete to be there for his grand Xbox duel."

"Blow him off," Helena demands. “This is important!”

Myka closes her score. “I promised.”

Helena looks at her without understanding. “Do whatever you wish with him, just do it later!”

Myka gives her a long, hard look. "Good night, Helena."

Pete beams at her when she arrives just in time for the duel. He would not need her for back-up, though, since most of the cast and crew of the _Giardiniera_ and what has to be the brass section of the entire festival orchestra - including the Tchaikovsky on the main stage - are already there and have taken a stand around the last dining hall table that remains in place, and the console it carries.

“I need my lyric soprano unharmed and able to sing in the morning.” A nervous Claudia, without success, tries to wrangle the remote from Pete. “And I need her half an hour early, since we’re rehearsing out at the Domaine.”

“We are?” Myka asks.

“Surprise!” Claudia announces and nods at Myka, before she makes another try for the remote. “Unless you behave like a bunch of teenagers tonight, and –“

“Tonight,” Myka repeats dryly and Claudia sighs, but it is lost in another cheer as Pete and Amanda exchange barbs and prowl around the table.

“As if it were a boxing match,” Myka says and Claudia frantically shakes her head.

“Don’t give them any ideas!”

“Order the pizza already, Lattimer!” A stocky redhead – bassoon section, Myka remembers – raises his beer bottle. “This will be short – I mean, girl gamers…”

There are whistles and catcalls and Amanda taps perfectly polished nails against her own beer bottle. “Not as short as your breath!”

Another cheer erupts, and Pete groans when he looks at the bassoon player. “Man, you better apologize if you ever want another date, with any woman, ever."

Amanda raises a brow, playing along. “Why would anyone date a brass player anyway?”

“Ha.” Pete grins. “One word: Tonguing.”

There’s more wolf whistles at that, and Amanda tips her head to Pete, while Claudia buries her head in her hands. “This isn't happening.”

But it is happening.

Myka does not know much about gaming, she still squints at the screen each time cheers erupt or a groan tear through the group. To her, it is a blur of rapidly passing landscapes, with dizzying jumps and turns, but both Pete and Amanda seem to have far too much fun to end the duel quickly.

“How’s that for a high C, soprano?”

Pete juggles his remote in triumph as an avalanche of rocks and sparkles covers the screen and the brass section cheers.

“I’m a lyric, brass boy, and we deal in legato!”

Amanda’s avatar slides down atop the avalanche and makes headway, but Amanda’s grin turns into a curse when once more, Pete appears ahead of her in the game.

“And that’s em-boss-ure!”

Laughter echoes across the room. Even Helena shows up at some point, nursing a beer and still looking somewhat surly, but Myka refuses to let that interfere with her own good mood.

She cheers when Amanda finally wins, but then wraps an arm around Pete. “Sorry you lost.”

But Pete is grinning and glances over to where Amanda stands. “I think I won big time.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Quote:  
> "You called?"  
> "No, my Lord. - Are you coming back?"  
> *sighs*


	6. Chapter 6

_"Vo cedendo, piano, piano." -_

_"Ah perché m'arresto, oh dio!  
Perché il piè tremando va?"_

 (Mozart, _La finta giardiniera_ )

 

Myka is the first one on the bus in the morning.

"If you showed up in hopes of picking the best seat: there are no best seats," Claudia greets her.

"Please tell me this thing does at least have air conditioning," Bennet says when he shows up, and Sam says, "Please tell me it doesn't."

Myka does not care either way, she is eighty pages into her travel guide and looking forward to sightseeing on their free afternoon.

"Reading up on Aix?"

Sam folds himself into the seat next to her and peers over her shoulder.

"Mhm." Myka turns a page. "I like to know beforehand what I'll be seeing."

"Are you planning on a tour?"

"Myka could _give_ tours," Amanda points out from the seat behind them. "Not to the beach, perhaps, but to everything that has been around for at least three-hundred years. Says Pete."

Myka looks at her over the rim of her book. "I'm not sure I like your spending time with Pete."

"You should, if you want to go look at old things without an ice-cream stop at every other corner," Amanda says flippantly. She tries to squeeze her legs into the allotted space and ends up jamming them into Myka's back.

"I hope you like ice-cream," Myka says.

Amanda is unperturbed. "After I best him in the rematch later, I will."

In front of them, Helena and Abigail enter the bus, together. Helena barely nods at Myka, her gaze sliding past as she sits down and smiles at something Abigail has said.

Myka wishes she did not care.

"I could come along if you'd like some company," Sam offers. He nods at her book. "You do the tour, I buy the ice-cream afterwards?"

Myka smiles. "Deal."

There is a jibe on Bennet's part about three-hundred-year-old ice-cream, and Myka laughs along with the others. The first tour guide of the day is Claudia, however, who oversees the unhurried ride out to the Domaine de Grand St. Jean and leads them around the property.

Myka tries to look suitably blasé while she tips her head back to take in the thick walls of the palace.

"Wild boars, mark my words," Bennet mutters as he side-eyes the woods across the grassy clearing where the stage is set up.

Sam sneezes. "Wild grains," he says nervously and promptly sneezes again. "God, is it still season for pollen here?!"

"Do you need to take any hay fever meds?" Claudia asks calmly and Myka uses the small commotion to press a palm to the weathered pink and white stone and feel its centuries seep into her skin.

"Quite impressive, isn't it?" Helena remarks next to her and it is Abigail who agrees, "It is."

Before Myka can say anything, Nielsen cuts the moment short. "And if you'd all remember we're not here for sightseeing, but to put on a show. - Second act finale, again!"

It is easier to get into it out here, with the whisper of actual trees close by and their voices being whisked away by the breeze.

"I haibb bhis," Sam declares thickly when he and Amanda end up curled into each other on the stage floor among bits of leaves and blossoms. Myka thinks that there are certainly worse conditions than being curled around either of them.

She sticks with yesterday's approach of mostly ignoring Helena and offering Amanda's Sandrina a hand. She also gets to brandish a fencing epée - "an upper crust 1920s fashion," Claudia tells her, "And don't ask me how many books on the issue Artie had me check out in preparation." -, which is something she always enjoys.

She is in such a good mood that she offers Helena to give it another try in the break. "We could go over the last part again."

Helena looks down at the weapon that is still fitting comfortably into Myka's hand. "I'd rather take a stab at it with Abigail first."

"Fine!" Myka throws up her hands. "Have Abigail sing Ramiro, too, why don't you?"

She tosses the epée onto the prop carrier and decides to walk a few steps. Not even her detailed guide on Roman monuments in the French Mediterranean seems enticing right now. Still with a frown, she arrives at the small chapel - it is more of a cistern - that Claudia has left to the wayside earlier. It is nestled among trees a bit to the side and its walls gleam brightly in the sunlight, enough to make Myka blink. The entrance is carefully blocked up, but the roof is missing some pieces and there is a splintered back door, and after a moment's hesitation, Myka pushes past remnants of wood into the room.

Welcome cool wraps around her and when she looks up, she can see bits of blue sky. Single rays of sunshine fall into the space. Myka hears her own breaths in the quiet, and she lets them shape into a hum.

Wood scrapes against stone behind her and Abigail, Todd and Helena slip into the chapel.

"As if it were calling for song," Helena says after a moment. She stretches out her hands. Her voice is low, but it resounds along the walls and carries high above them towards the battered roof.

"Something sacred," Todd agrees, and he is whispering.

Helena draws breath.

_"Che soave zeffiretto..."_

"That's not exactly sacred," Myka mutters.

"What's more sacred than Mozart?" Todd wants to know, and Myka has to concede the point when Helena shapes the next line. She is not a lyric soprano, but Myka finds herself wondering whether she might have been, when the voice opens up smoothly and shimmers on _"sera"_ , evoking a fragrant summer night.

 _"Questa sera spirerà,"_ she echoes. Susanna is a little high in tessitura to fit her voice comfortably, but the duet is still within her range.

Then it is Helena again, and it is Mozart, a softly beating pulse even in just an a cappella line.

_"Sotto i pini del boschetto..."_

For a precious tumble of seconds, Myka feels in sync with the entire universe.    

_"Sotto i pini...?"_

Their voices edge closer to one another. She is singing into Helena's echo, _"certo, certo, il capirà",_ and then their voices are finally mingling, metal and velvet, and their effortless fit makes Myka doubt for a moment whether this sound is inappropriate within the confines of a chapel.

Helena is smiling, she segues into the reprise and if Myka had to describe her right now, she would say, 'serene'.

_"Che soave zeffiretto..."_

Myka blends into it, one line following another, then the _gruppetti,_ and Helena goes for a soft _decrescendo,_ leaving space for Myka. It is a duet about inviting a man to a date, and yet it is not about any man at all. Their final shared notes dot the air like drops of gentle rain.

Then there is quiet, and again the only sound audible in the chapel is their breathing.

"Hot damn," Abigail finally mutters.

"It's a pity you two don't share a duet in the show," Todd adds, and Myka does not enjoy berating Arminda for the second half of the rehearsal as much as she had during the first half. She does not have much time to think about duets, though, since Nielsen is thoroughly unhappy with everyone and attests them all a case of hay fever.

"Time to regroup!" Claudia calls out as they line up for their bus again, and she shakes her head at the bedraggled assembly and their assortment of frowns and yawns. Helena has hidden behind her shades, Myka has returned to her travel guide, and not even Kelly is smiling. "All right, time for some team bonding," Claudia decides. "Change of plans!" She slides into her seat next to the driver. "Take us down to Marseille. These kids need some sunshine at the beach."

Myka looks up from her book with consternation. "The beach?"

Sam sneezes.

"I wanted to practice," Amanda complains.

"It's your afternoon off," Claudia says. "That goes for your voice, too."

"Practice for my rematch with Pete," Amanda mutters, and Claudia looks up sharply.

"Pete will still be there in the evening."

Sam opens his mouth to protest, but Claudia cuts him off. "There will be no pollen at the beach. Myka, the Roman ruins will still be there on the weekend. - Plus I could use an hour or two of sunshine, and, frankly, group morale could be better."

"Can we stop on the way to pick up our bikinis?" Kelly wants to know.

But Claudia is not in the mood for further stops, so they end up buying cheap bikinis and sombreros at a ramshackle booth directly at the beach of Marseille.

"You're in the Mediterranean! Live a little!" Claudia instructs as she lets herself fall backwards into the sand. She has doled out a stack of towels - "You planned this," Myka accuses her, and Claudia shakes her head. "I am an assistant director, I am always prepared." - and pops open a can of soda.

Bennet blinks at the countless dots of color in the water and lining the sand around them, bathing suits and hats and sunroofs. "I am beginning to see your point." He rolls up the legs of his trousers and next to him, Sam gingerly does the same. He has stopped sneezing.

Myka pushes her toes into the sand. Packing a bathing suit has not crossed her mind when she was preparing for Aix, and then nothing crosses her mind for a long minute because Helena and Kelly have changed into their new bikinis.

"Like what you see?" Claudia asks quietly next to her. Myka bolts upright behind her pair of cheap new shades and quickly squints at her book again, even though the sun is much too bright to allow for any reading.

Claudia chuckles. She has offered to watch their belongings for now, while everyone else is heading down to the shore. Amanda is already up to her knees in the water, her summer shirt a splash of red against the sun.

"Want me to bring you back some ice-cream, Claudia?"

Todd, on the other hand, is not wearing any shirt at all.

"See anything _you_ like?" Myka mutters.

"Todd, sweetheart, thank you!" Claudia calls out and she is completely unfazed. "Get me anything with a cherry on top!"

She laughs when he blushes and walks off, weaving his way around towels and sunroofs.

"Do you still believe he's into _Kelly_?" Myka asks.

"I think he's young, and enjoying the summer. As he should."

"And you think he's cute."

A little bit to the side, Helena has brought her score to the beach and is going through the pages with Abigail, while she absently applies sunscreen to her legs. Then she gathers her hair over one shoulder and turns half to the side, exposing the pale length of her back, and passes the bottle of sunscreen to Abigail.

Myka would be quite happy to discuss Claudia's romantic interests or lack thereof, or possibly the rehearsal schedules from last week, instead of watching Abigail's hands on Helena's skin, or pondering her own reaction to that very image.

"Todd is cute," Claudia concedes and she leans back on her hands. "And he's a sweet guy, too. All the more reason not to encourage him. - Because first it's just a night at the pub, but then it turns into the whole summer, and then I could really like him by the time we wrap up, and then it's heartbreak and pricey long-distance bills until the next production rolls around and the actual question is who will be the first one to move on."

"That's a little harsh," Myka protests.

"On dating on the circuit?" Claudia crosses her ankles and watches the sand roll off her shins. "I've yet to see it work. - You get tossed into one emotional hothouse after another. Two incredibly close months, and then it's over. Even if you don't want it to be. And then it's the same with a new crew." She shrugs. "I try not to let things happen."

Myka cannot argue with that. "But aren't you afraid of missing out on something?"

"I'm afraid of missing out on sleep and not putting everything into my work because I am distressed over some Todd or Giovanni or Dmitri," Claudia says dryly. "And I've been there with Giovanni, and with Dmitri, and I am not going there with Todd. Even if he is very cute."

Myka wants to add something profound to that, but then Helena turns onto her stomach and continues to leaf through her score, and Myka tries to look into her travel guide and not at the shadows that run along the slope of Helena's neck, and further down, along thin triangles of fabric that are now challenged with gentle weight.

"How about a walk along the shore?" Sam asks from above her and motions ahead, to where the plethora of colored dots thins out. He offers her a hand to pull her up and Myka takes his hand first and only later bends down to roll up her pants. She leaves her travel guide behind.

"So what is the one role you absolutely have to sing?" Sam asks as they walk. When Myka stumbles over a small hole in the sand, he reaches for her hand again to steady her.

"Probably Octavian, at some point down the road." Sam's hand is dry and warm, and he has yet to let go off Myka's fingers.

"I could see that," he agrees.

"And I have done Dorabella already. I think that is truly my range now, and what I want to do." Myka looks to the side, but Sam's features are left in the dark by the surrounding sunlight. She has to squint and takes back her hand, adjusts her shades. "Though my other really big goal is Tancredi."

"Another good fit," Sam says. "Not a popular choice, though. - No Carmen?"

"God, no." Myka laughs.

"You don't see yourself driving a man crazy?"

Myka measures her reply. "I don't see myself driving that kind of middle register."

Sam smiles. "I think you could. - Or are bullfighters not your type?"

"Not if they roar."

"A very Mozartean answer." Sam is still smiling, but he is looking at Myka expectantly and now she has to ask the same question in return.

"So what is your dream role?"

"If I play my cards right..." Sam pauses, but he seems pretty confident that the game will go his way. "Don José. Perhaps in five years, perhaps in seven..."

"It seems at least one of us is going for Carmen," Myka remarks diplomatically. She nods at the stretch of beach ahead. "We should probably head back soon. It's supposed to be group bonding, Claudia said.“

Sam rolls his eyes, a little, but he does not protest. He even joins the beach volleyball match that Claudia proposes and shows off alongside Todd, who jumps higher and pitches harder than necessary. Myka is tall enough to reach most of the balls either way, unless Helena laughs on the sidelines and Myka grasps at air, her head swimming with the sight of Helena, an unbuttoned shirt – Bennet’s, if she remembers correctly – thrown on haphazardly on top of the bikini.

The skin at Myka’s nape feels tight and sore to the touch by the time they climb into the bus again, but she does not mind. Single grains of sand fall onto the worn seat when she runs a hand through her hair.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to do your sightseeing tour,” Sam says. His voice is close to Myka’s ear. At the other side of the car, Helena closes her eyes and leans her head against the window. “Perhaps we could still do a small round once we get back?”

“You would do that?”

“Sure,” Sam says. “You pick the sights, I pick the ice-cream afterwards?”

His smile is easier than Myka has seen on him so far, and it does make him look rather handsome.

When they drive up in front of their guesthouse, dusk is falling already and the driver has switched on the headlights that outline the figure of Pete who is sitting on the stairs to the entrance and is trying not to look as if he is waiting for Amanda.

“Here, let me.” Sam moves to the door to offer Myka a hand in helping her out of the bus. “I’ll just go put on another shirt, and we can start the tour!”

Pete watches him walk away, then he steps closer to Myka, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “So, the tenor?”He makes a show of waggling his eyebrows. “Well, if you must… I had pegged you more for Miss Cardiff, though.”

Myka sputters. “Excuse me?” It comes out a little too high.

Pete shrugs. “Well - that, or you’ve thrown her to the sharks.” He looks past Myka, into the bus where Amanda is still gathering her things. “No sharks, then,” he observes when Helena brushes past them. “So…”

Myka is relieved of an answer when Amanda finally steps out into the evening. “What, trombone – you’re not using every spare minute to practice for our duel?”

Pete rocks back on his heels and he is grinning. “Get your ego down from the stratosphere where your voice lives. If I practiced, I would bore myself in defeating you.”

Amanda tries to look haughty, but she is clearly having too much fun to try very hard. “You do know that ‘defeating someone’ is when you win, right?”

“You’ll know in an hour,” Pete promises. “And then you pay the ice-cream.”

“Not a chance.” Amanda shakes her head. “And I want pizza. I haven’t had dinner yet.”

“Sounds like a romantic evening is in store for you.” Myka slaps Pete’s shoulder with her travel guide. “Enjoy!”

It is only when she is walking with Sam, talking some more about repertory and career choices, that she realizes the flaw in her plan: most sights are closed up already and the readily falling darkness makes it difficult to take in the details she has marked in her guide.

Sam, who has a light pullover carefully draped around his shoulders, does not seem to mind. He listens to her quotes on architecture and remembers his promise to buy them ice cream in the end. Since they cannot find a parlor that is open at this hour, they end up with frozen yogurt from a fast-food chain as they amble back towards their quarters.

“Thank you for coming with me,” Myka says. They are standing in the backyard of the guesthouse, in front of the small set of stairs that would take them inside. The granite stands out in the moonlight.

“Thank you for the tour,” Sam replies. “Now I know what I would have seen, if there had been enough light.”

“Yes, about that…” Myka chuckles, a tad embarrassed.

“Don’t worry about it.”

When Myka looks up, Sam’s face is very close to hers, and she realizes that he is going to kiss her a second before he is leaning in. She does not move away. Their lips are sticky with frozen yogurt and its heavily sweet taste still clings to their mouths as the kiss goes on. Myka is aware of the gravel crunching beneath their feet and of the cicadas chirping across the yard. A trace of cigarette smoke carries in the air for a moment. When Sam tries to slip a hand around her neck, she flinches at the touch.

“Sunburn,” she explains quickly.

“Oh. Sorry.”Sam takes a small step back, and he does not seem to know what to do with his hands now. “It is getting late, anyway. – But I had fun tonight. Good night, Myka.”

“Good night,” Myka echoes, and she watches him walk up the stairs and disappear into the house. Only then does she take a deep breath, lets it fill her lungs, and exhales audibly. She tips up her head to look at the moon, but a small glint of orange catches her eye instead.

Leaning against the side of the house, covered by the shadows, stands Helena, taking a deep draw of a cigarette. In the darkness, Myka cannot make out where Helena is looking. When the nighttime breeze carries over another tendril of smoke, Myka shakes her head and hurries inside.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Quote:  
> "Bit by bit, I'm giving in."  
> "Oh Lord, why do I even stop walking? Why is my foot trembling?"
> 
> \- The duet sung in the chapel is the "(Canzonetta) sull'aria." from Mozart's "Le nozze di Figaro", 3rd act (YT has plenty of versions, try Dame Kiri & Cotrubas 1973 (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gaVIwwNhocg - young Kiri. Reason enough.), Popp & Janowith 1980 in Paris (we will always have Paris - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wd5nFd3utLg) or Bartoli and Fleming 1998 (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BLtqZewjwgA - the only combination with a mezzo Susanna here). Ignore wigs and staging at will (though not the Paris one - it's Strehler and Janowith is a fox), it is an amazingly sensual piece for two female voices.  
> \- Roles Sam and Myka talk about at the beach:  
> Octavian from "Der Rosenkavalier" (Strauss) - one of the biggest trouser role classics, core repertory for lyric mezzos with enough heft. Heavy lesbian subtext (clock in at 8'00 here and be amazed at stage lesbians in the 1950s: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HAw4iDDWby8).  
> Dorabella from "Così fan tutte" (Mozart) - core lyric mezzo repertory (no trousers, though - ignore the baritone and focus on the heartbeat instead: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HFCg1oF-Tbc)  
> Tancredi from "Tancredi" (Rossini) - a little heavier, belcanto mezzo stuff: swaggering warrior hero who gets the girl (oh my. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oUMOhlNz2zo)  
> Carmen & Don José from Bizet's "Carmen" - very straight, but usually there's cleavage (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K2snTkaD64U)


	7. Chapter 7

 

 _“Costui mi piace, sarebbe bella che così_  
_non volendo avesse a innamorarmi;_  
_ma che dico, che mi viene in pensiero_?”

(Mozart, _La finta giardiniera_ )

 

 

 

The next morning, Myka is up half an hour early and adds an extra round to her running routine. The light is bright enough to make her squint even at this early hour and the ground under her soles resounds with weeks of dryness along its creeks. Still, she would be content to run another round, and yet another, anything to keep moving and focus on her breathing instead of having to think. But she needs her energy for the rehearsal day ahead, so she consciously slows down a little and feels the dust she is whirling up brush against her shins.

She does not see Sam, not even on her way back in, although she lingers while she stretches. She is equal parts disappointed and relieved. It is only on her way to the showers, when she takes the shortcut through one of the men's floors, that she runs into one of her colleagues.

It is Kelly, who catches Myka just in front of Pete's door, where she is debating whether she should knock. She would like to talk, but she does not know how last night's gaming duel has ended and she is getting enough of an eyeful of Amanda during costume fittings as it is.

"Looking for the team?" Kelly suggests and her tone is all wink and nudge.

Myka ignores it. "Yes, where is everyone? - I didn't want to have breakfast alone –"

"Let's see. "Kelly holds up a hand and ticks off her fingers. "Todd, wardrobe department. Bennet, wardrobe assistant. Sam, treadmill. You, outdoors. Helena is already at it with Abigail, and where Amanda is, I have no idea."

An image of Helena and Abigail at the beach flashes through Myka's mind, skin and sunscreen. She presses her lips together. Then she gives Kelly a curious look. "And how do you know all that?"

"I'm nosy." Kelly's grin is entirely unapologetic. "Also, I was up even earlier than you."

"And where’s Pete?" Myka asks.

Kelly claps her on the shoulder in walking past. "Nice try, Bering."

It is only when Myka is rinsing shampoo out of her hair that she asks herself what Kelly has been doing on the men's floor.

Pete, as it turns out, is seated in front of two breakfast plates when Myka walks into the dining hall, her hair still a little damp. He is having breakfast with Claudia, who at this hour is usually already on her way to prep the morning rehearsal. Myka is about to pull up a chair when she hears them argue.

"I'm serious, Pete. Don't mess up my production! Did you forget about last year?"

"With you telling me every other day? As if!" Pete says and he is sulking. “And nothing would have happened if everyone else had been equally cool with her playing ‘many little Papagenas’ with a few more Papagenos. – I didn’t start the trouble.”

Claudia throws up her hands. "What's it with you and my singers, anyway? – I don't want you playing games with them."

"Literally?" Pete asks and Claudia groans.

"Literally. Metaphorically. Any way there is."

"You cannot take away the Xbox!" Pete crosses his arms over his chest.

Claudia turns her coffee cup around on the saucer in circles. "But I could take away the soprano."

Pete grins and shakes his head. "Good luck trying to get Amanda away from the gaming controls. She is _fierce_."

"Please tell me we are still talking on a literal level," Claudia mutters.

"The gaming controls. And pizza," Pete says happily. "You do not want to get into it with her over the last slice of pizza."

Claudia sighs. "That's the problem. You two are pretty much a match made in heaven, which is why things could really go south if they blow up. – She is my _lead_ , Pete."

Pete's smile is fading and now he looks bedraggled. It is the most vulnerable Myka has seen him yet, and she steps in before she can think better of it. "Or it could work out really well."

"Not you, too." Claudia side-eyes Myka. "Because that Xbox is one thing, but I don't need complaints about _petit Pete_ on my schedule!"

"You won't hear any," Amanda says easily from behind them. “Not from me, at least.” She has stopped at their table on her way from the breakfast buffet, a cup and saucer balanced in her hand, and when it comes to a quiet, soft-soled approach, she would make a good Assistant Director, too.

Claudia sputters around a sip of coffee and then she is coughing for long seconds. Myka is surprised to see Pete look bashful.

Amanda eyes Pete’s plates. "I might file complaints against big Pete here, though. He is hoarding all the breakfast bacon." With that, she reaches over with her fork.

"But I am hungry!" Pete protests, even as he makes no motion to stop Amanda.

"Well, trombone, you're not the only one who ---"

"No. No." Claudia has stopped coughing and now she is sticking her fingers into her ears. "I did not hear this. I am not hearing any of this."

"I could do a _da capo_ ," Amanda offers smoothly. Pete snickers. "And if you're worried I might sprain something, simply tell Nielsen to reconsider the acrobatics at the end of Act I."

Claudia huffs.

Amanda takes a dainty bite of her captured bacon. "And on that note, I am off to revise."

"And I am off to improvise," Claudia grumbles. She punches Pete in the shoulder as she leaves, but it is an affectionate gesture.

Pete gestures at the vacant chair and points his fork at Myka. "If you're not stealing my bacon, have a seat."

"You let Amanda steal your bacon," Myka says as she sits down. "So how did the rematch go last night?"

"I won. She sulked." Pete digs into his bacon. "And then we had pizza." He looks at Myka and whispers. "She orders extra large. With double cheese. She is _perfect_."

"And then you decided to burn off the dinner again, is that it?" Myka asks. "Or what is going on?"

"I don't know," Pete admits. "It's not like we really talked. Well, other than insulting each other's game moves. And then fighting over the last slice of pizza."

"But you like her," Myka says.

Pete rolls his eyes. "Do you have eyes?"

"But that's not why you like her," Myka says.

Pete tries to look indifferent for about a second. "True," he admits then.

"So perhaps you two should talk," Myka suggests. "Ask her out."

"And if she does not want to talk? Or go out? I don’t want to jinx it.– A pair of remotes and pizza, that's fine. That's more than fine."

"But perhaps you --"

"Ah-ah." Pete holds up a hand. "You know, I'm not sure I'll take dating advice from someone who went out with a _tenor_."

"It was just sightseeing," Myka says, but she does not look him in the eye.

Pete gives her his best arch look. "Riiight."

Myka sighs. "He kissed me."

Pete is leaning forward on his elbows. "Aaand?"

"What, and?" Myka straightens in her seat. "Nothing! Not everyone fast forwards three dates with a remote control!"

"Two gaming duels are completely valid as first dates," Pete says. "Plus a large pizza order: three. – But don't think you can distract me. He kissed you?"

"Yes," Myka says and she looks left and right whether someone is overhearing them.

Pete looks at her expectantly.

“What?” Myka asks.

"Well, did you kiss him back?"

"Yes," Myka says hastily, and then, a little louder, "Yes."

Pete holds up his hands. "You don't need to convince _me_."

"Lattimer, off we go!"

One of Pete's trombone colleagues is standing in the door, instrument case in hand.

"Damn," Pete quickly scoops up some more bacon and eggs as he stands. "Just as it was getting interesting." He waves at Myka on his way out. "Mm'ant details mm'ight!"

Myka is not sure whether the state of details will still be the same by nightfall; both Sam and Myka herself are slated for the first part of the morning rehearsal with several scenes from the Second Act and they should talk to each other.

Sam, however, is nowhere in sight when Myka arrives, and he is usually the next on set after her. Bennet walks in next, as does Kelly, and then Helena arrives with Abigail in tow, when Nielsen is just about to call to the stage.

“Myka, Sam, Kelly!”

“Sam’s at the ENT, getting a hay fever prescription,” Claudia says from where she is hunched over the prompt book. “Should be here in an hour.”

Once again, Myka is both relieved and disappointed, even though she does not want to be either.

“Fantastic,” Nielsen bites out. “Couldn’t he have done that yesterday afternoon?”

Claudia shakes her head. “Mandated group activity. Plus he was fine at the seaside.”

“Seaside,” Nielsen grumbles. “What are we doing, Rusalka?! - We bump up the beginning of Act Two, then. – Myka, Helena! Or does any of you two have hay fever, too?”

“No,” Myka says.

“If it were contagious,” Helena mutters under her breath, half glancing at Myka and Myka wants to kick her in the shins of her rehearsal riding boots. Instead she reminds herself that she is a professional and squares her shoulders. She does not enjoy getting scene changes sprung on her, and she did not prepare for dealing with Helena first thing in the morning.

“This should be a walk in the park: you two are fighting,” Nielsen announces while the wardrobe intern fits Myka with a fencing epée and a pair of gloves. “ _Within_ the scene.”

“We need to build up to the duel challenge in the Act Finale, Myka, so the fencing comes in here already,” Claudia explains. “Just think of it as Ramiro’s favorite sport.”

“Favorite sport.” Myka nods, and shifts the weapon in her grasp until the balance feels right.

“You want to talk to her,” Nielsen says to Myka and points at Helena. “And she doesn’t. – Give it a go.”

There is just one thin chord by Abigail, and Myka chases after Helena across the stage. _“Don’t run away from me, you cruel, ungrateful woman. Stop!”_

The phrase rings a little close to home, but before Myka can dwell on that, Helena stops and turns around to glare at Myka, who cannot shake the sensation of being pinned in place anymore than the suddenly quicker rhythm of her pulse. Helena has not looked at her – really looked at her – in two days, Myka realizes, not since they have fought over Pete’s Xbox duel, and the gaze hits her like a jolt.

 _“What do you allow yourself?”_ Helena’s Arminda is very cold and poised. _“What do you want from me? What do you hope to gain?”_

And Myka is stupidly angry, at Arminda, at Helena, at the entire situation. _“What I want? What I hope to gain? How can you even still look me in the eye?!”_ She draws her shoulders back, and the rehearsal lights glint off her weapon. _“If I had known that you were the niece of the Podestà, I would have spared you my sight and the embarrassment!”_

It should not feel so satisfying to yell at Helena, who remains perfectly calm.

_“But if fate doesn’t want me to be with you…”_

Helena manages to make it sound both pitying and bemused and it riles Myka up even more.

 _“Oh, that’s too lazy as an excuse!”_ Her frustration pours into Ramiro’s. _“It’s your pride, your vanity, your wish to climb up the social ladder…”_

“Stop!” Nielsen calls. “That’s just one register. It needs to be more layered!”

“Everyone back into their corner, cue Round Two!” Bennet says under his breath, but it is still loud enough to be heard around the stage. There are some chuckles, though Nielsen ignores him.

“Remember, you two used to be a couple. And by the end of the opera, the audience has to believe that you’re willing to be a couple again.”

“Marvelous.” Helena says dryly.

“Then make it marvelous,” Nielsen says impatiently. “Again!”

Myka walks off the stage, waits for the chord that Abigail plays, and then throws open the door that is the lone set piece already in place to the side. Helena is now perched against the table in the center of the stage, pretending to leaf through a paper – “Wedding magazines!” Claudia supplies – and then being startled by Myka’s appearance.

_“Don’t run away from me –“_

“Stop!” Nielsen orders and Myka releases her breath in one slow exhale.

“Myka –“ In two steps, Nielsen is on stage next to her. “Good impulse for the spacing, but how do you know Arminda is in here? She’s been here for a while, if she is reading, and if she can be startled.”

“I don’t know.” Myka runs a hand through her hair. Helena is still leaning against the table and she is now crossing her legs and Myka looks at the tiny houndstooth pattern on her riding pants and feels exhausted. “But I don’t see Ramiro chasing her with an epée through the entire mansion. Even though he might want to.” She glances over at Helena. “Belfiore is the one with the grey lines when it comes to women and violence. Ramiro should appeal to Arminda as different.”

Nielsen nods slowly. “Good point. Show it to me.”

Myka walks back offstage, sets her stance. “Can I get a few more seconds here?”

Nielsen motions at Abigail to wait, and Myka makes her entrance, and she carries her weapon as if she just walked off a training piste. She gestures as if she sets down a sports bag and Abigail improvises a few light chords. Only when Myka looks up, she segues into the recitative, and now Myka is hurrying towards a startled Helena, who begins to back away.

She tries it more softly this time. _“Don’t run away from me…”_

It comes out whiny to her own ears. Helena looks unimpressed, and Nielsen calls for yet another stop.

“Your cue to say ‘this does not work’,” Myka quips as she stands next to Helena.

“It is not nearly as amusing when you say it first,” Helena says, and she is not smiling.

“This is the first time we see these two characters alone,” Nielsen tries to impress onto them. “And we need to see something of their story as a couple in this scene.”

Myka worries at her lip. “What if Arminda sees him first?” she asks. “I walk in, and she sees me before I see her?”

Helena stands. “Make some fencing noises outside,” she says to Myka and there is the familiar focus in her stance.

“Do we have another blade?” Nielsen asks into the room. “Intern?”

“Nick!” Claudia thrusts a bent sports epée at the baffled intern and pushes him towards the stage. “Go with Myka and try not to get skewered.”

They are staging a training duel, offstage and out of sight, and Myka makes sure that there is a good amount of clang and rasp of metal. She keeps an eye on the stage where now Helena pretends to enter, from the other side. She stops, seemingly recognizing something in the sounds, and then she walks at a slightly quicker pace to the sideline where later, on the real stage, there will be a wall and a window.

Abigail fashions a little entr’acte from Myka’s first aria as Helena pretends to gaze out of the window, unobserved, and watch her former lover train. She allows herself a wistful smile and her eyes actually follow Myka’s moves as she and Nick pretend to fence. Myka is suddenly grateful that there are only marked lines on the floor because like this, she can see what Helena is doing, who suddenly freezes and steps back, as if Myka has seen her.

It is an even better twist on her idea, Myka has to admit as she takes her cue and hurries onstage again, now prompted by Arminda herself.

_“Don’t run away from me –“_

It’s stronger again, but now Ramiro has a reason to be both angry and hopeful.

“Better!” Nielsen confirms from the sidelines and motions at them to continue. “You are fighting, but there also needs to be chemistry!”

Myka yells _“Stop!”_ again, but now Helena stops abruptly, whirls around and is suddenly very close to Myka.

 _“What do you allow yourself?”_ Now Helena says it slowly, and then she slides onto the table at her back and crosses her legs. _“What do you want from me? What do you hope to gain?”_

 _“Wha-what I want? What I hope to gain?”_ Ramiro’s stutter is only half-acted, and Helena’s hand comes up, moves along Myka’s shoulder, her neck.

_“But if fate doesn’t want me to be with you…”_

It is a murmur, intimate, with Arminda being caught up in the moment. Myka pushes away that hand more forcefully than necessary.

 _“Oh, that’s too lazy as an excuse!_ – _It’s your pride, your vanity, your wish to climb up the social ladder –”_

“Myka, less anger!” Nielsen interrupts again. “It needs to be more layered, they are sharing a moment here.”

“Well, am I mad or am I not?” Myka asks curtly.

“Both,” Nielsen says. “There is no easy answer.”

Myka does not need ‘easy’, but she would appreciate ‘clear’.

“Start again with your first phrase!” Behind Nielsen, Nick breathes a sigh of relief. Only then Myka realizes that everyone else is quiet, and focused on the stage.

Helena does need no clear direction, apparently, and when she asks again, _“What do you allow yourself?”_ it is the perfect mix of arrogant and seductive.

 _“What I want? What I hope to gain?”_ Myka tries to inject some confidence into her words, but they come out frustrated and raw. Nielsen seems to like it, though, since he does not interrupt the scene again.

_“But if fate doesn’t want me to be with you…”_

Helena’s tone is intimate and a little teasing, and she leans in while her hand wanders along Myka’s shoulder.

 _“Oh, that’s too lazy as an excuse!”_ And perhaps that is the mixture of hurt and anger Nielsen has been looking for all along. _“It’s your pride, your vanity, your wish to climb up the social ladder that made you reject my love! But heaven, by which you swore your love to me so many times, heaven will avenge me!”_

 _“That’s going too far!”_ Helena suddenly has her hand around the hilt of the epée. They grapple with each other for a tense few moments, then Myka steps back, allows Helena to point the tip at her chest.

 _“It’s true.”_ It is not arrogant now, just honest and Myka has to admit again that Helena is very good with detail. _“I cheated on you, I betrayed you.”_ Helena lets the weapon trace a little pattern across Myka’s chest, and Myka swallows reflexively. _“I admit my fault.”_ Then, in a blink, Helena breaks the moment and tosses the epée back at Myka. _“But I can’t bring myself to regret it. My Count is just too handsome…”_

 _“Oh, don’t rub that hated rival in my face!”_ Myka clenches her fists, rooted to the spot as she yells. _“And you won’t get to laugh about my pain. He’s not worthy of you, and I will go after him!”_ She stands for a moment longer, then she storms offstage.

It is quiet in the room for a long moment after that.

“Very good,” Nielsen finally allows. “Save for the end. That last bit, Myka, it’s not dynamic enough. It needs another register, not just yelling, not after the scope you two just made visible.”

That is the thing closest to praise Nielsen has said to her yet and Myka is hung up on it for a second.

“Why don’t you make it more physical?” Helena suggests. “Slam me against the wall, after I taunt you like that.”

Myka shakes her head. “I don’t want him to be that kind of guy.”

“Yes, God forbid there was a moment of uncontrolled passion in your life,” Helena says archly and Myka really contemplates kicking her in the shins now.

“He loves her,” she says. “And he’s a gentleman, despite of how she’s treated him.”

“But he still wants me,” Helena says. “So much that you can’t take it any longer here. I know how to push your buttons.” She leans back against the wall then and looks up at Myka, who suddenly feels uncomfortable with Nielsen hovering just out of reach. “Perhaps I want you to,” Helena suggests in a low tone, as if Nielsen were not there at all, and Myka thinks that the setting should be a noir movie instead of the 1920s. “And I know _you_ want to.”

“I don’t like the message that sends,” Myka says stiffly. She takes a step back and Helena is still leaning against the wall as if she is waiting for something. “That’s dubious consent at best!”

“Well, life’s messy, at best!” Helena says with exasperation. “‘Dubious consent’, are you sure Ramiro isn’t a lawyer?”

“Perhaps he is,” Myka says testily.

“He probably is,” Nielsen agrees.

Helena crosses her arms over her chest and now her gaze is derisive. “Unless he is also a little passionate, I do not see myself ending up with him.”

“It’s not his fault if you prefer jerks who do not respect your space,” Myka says hotly.

“Oh please,” Helena scoffs. “Nobody goes to the opera to see people respect each others’ spaces!”

“Ladies –“ Nielsen tries to get a word in.

“What?” Helena whips around. “The genre is no PSA against gender violence!”

“Well, it is scenes like that which keep making them necessary!” Myka insists.

Before Helena can answer, Nielsen holds up a hand.

“The whole scene again,” he orders. “Myka, just look at the impulse in that moment, and see where it takes you. Also, keep in mind that you are declaring here already that you want to go after Belfiore. It needs to stick with people that you want him out of the picture.”

“By what, seducing him?” Helena says with a little sneer and she is too far away for Myka to reach her shins. She pushes past Helena as she stalks off the stage to her mark.

“Round Three,” Bennet comments, but this time, nobody laughs.

Once more, it is Helena gazing at her through the window, Helena standing too close, Helena sitting on the table, her hand smoothing along Myka’s shoulder. It is a teasing push-and-pull, although Myka still wants to kick Helena and when they struggle for the weapon, it goes on for long seconds, grappling for real, and then the metal tip is once more circling across Myka’s chest, lower than before.

_“My Count is just too handsome…”_

It rings of a sing-song taunt, and Myka allows herself to let loose.

 _“Oh, don’t rub that hated rival in my face!”_ They are standing close to the wall and Myka slams her hand against it, effectively trapping Helena, who looks up at her and then she is making a minuscule movement with her torso, a small slide against the wall that evokes things far different than kicking her in the shins. _“And you won’t get to laugh about my pain,”_ Myka soldiers on after a long moment. _“He’s not worthy of you, and I will go after him!”_

She pushes away from Helena and as she walks offstage, she is still fuming, but the scene feels right.

Helena waits a second longer before she continues and when Myka looks at her from the sidestage, she sees Helena draw a breath that is not entirely steady.

_“And yet I feel sorry for him. I know he is right to blame me… But the arrow does not return to the bow: I agreed to marry the Count, be it a whim, or be it fate.”_

“Done!” Nielsen declares into the silence. “Claudia, write that down to a t. And I don’t care if you have to make them start a fight every time before the scene, I want it exactly like this.” To the entire room, he says, “Coffee break!”

Myka heads for a tea after Helena and her cup of coffee have moved to the piano, and to Abigail.

“Tough rehearsal up there, huh?”

Myka turns around to face Sam, who smiles at her a little nervously. “I caught the back end of the scene. Lots of tension.”

Myka nods, and they have not even said hello. Sam seems to remember that, too, so he leans in to kiss her cheek. After a second, Myka decides she should do the same, and moves to kiss his cheek in return.

“Are you all right?” she asks then. “Your throat?”

“Everything covered,” Sam says and he holds up a small plastic satchel with a pharmacy logo. “Oh, and I have something for you!” He carefully draws a concert ticket out of his pocket and hands it to Myka. “With thanks for the sightseeing tour yesterday.”

On the piano, Helena loudly clanks a spoon against her cup, even though Myka knows for a fact that she drinks her coffee black.

Sam points at the lettering on the ticket. “It’s for my concert recital next week. Top seat in the front row – I made some use of my management contacts to get one for you…”

“Thank you,” Myka says, but then Claudia comes over to brief Sam on the setting for his next scene, and Myka drinks her tea. She can take her time because she is not on right after the break, so she sips her tea and watches Helena effortlessly slip back into the moment they just left.

_“And yet I feel sorry for him. I know he is right to blame me… But the arrow does not return to the bow: I agreed to marry the Count, be it a whim, or be it fate.”_

It is longing and tender even while it is defiant and Myka still cannot pinpoint how Helena does it.

Sam walks onto stage, restless, without seeing Arminda.

_“I’m desperate! Since I’ve seen Sandrina, I know no more peace…”_

Helena’s head snaps up as if she is an animal that has been lying in wait and Myka straightens in her seat. ‘No more peace’ should be a warning for the scene. It is suddenly heavy with a tension that stretches far into the small audience.

 _“Since I’ve seen Sandrina, I know no more peace,”_ Helena mocks Sam, and every time Nielsen interrupts them or has them start again, her posture becomes more aggressive.

Bennet does not announce any boxing rounds when Helena corners Sam against the table, pushes him onto it and straddles him in ire, a hand at his throat.

“Again,” Nielsen orders.

“And make sure she doesn’t kill him,” Bennet mutters next to Myka.

Sam is backing away from Helena now, breaking into a run as she chases him. “Good, use the space!” Nielsen interjects, but Helena does not acknowledge him. Once more, she pins Sam to the table and suddenly, she has Myka’s weapon from the previous scene in her hand, threatening a disheveled Sam as she launches into her aria for the second time. She does not mark.

_“I want to punish you, you unworthy man. I want to rip out your heart!”_

It is tiptoeing the edge of being too much, but it is riveting. Myka involuntarily holds her breath.

Helena pushes forward as Sam tries to scramble away, teetering dangerously close to the edge for a second, and then the table cannot withstand the uneven balance any longer and topples over, sending both Sam and Helena crashing to the floor. Sam manages to roll and cover while Helena, the epée still in her grasp, lands on her arm. There is a loud splitting sound and the upper half of the blade skitters across the stage floor. Abigail withdraws her hands from the keys.

“Oh, bloody hell.” Helena cradles her right wrist to her.

“Please don’t write this version down,” Sam says as he sits up gingerly and eyes the weapon and the upended table.

“Are you both all right?” Claudia is already onstage, checking for damage to personnel and equipment. “Helena, do you need to have that checked out?”

Helena waves her off. “No, I’m fine.” She takes a deep breath, sits back on her haunches and stands. “Let’s go on, the energy was good just now.”

Sam nods somewhat shakily. “Could we move the action from the table to the floor, though?”

“Let’s give it a try,” Helena agrees, but when she reaches down to pick up the now shorter epée, she uses her left hand.

“Abigail, from the start,” Nielsen says. “And Wells, don’t even think about using that sword. I don’t want to cast a new tenor tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Helena tosses the broken weapon to the side and waves for a new one. Nick hurries onstage with a replacement, brushing against Helena’s arm in his haste, and Helena is not quick enough to hide her wince.

“Stop,” Claudia declares. “Helena, that doesn’t look okay. – Also, Sam, let me see your knees. You’re limping.”

“Great, let’s reduce the cast,” Nielsen grumbles, while Nick scrambles for the First Aid kit. “It’s not like I need my rehearsal hours!”

“You need this soprano for another couple of weeks, so we need to make sure she is all right,” Claudia says while she checks out the wrist of an impatient Helena, and then begins to cut band-aid strips for Sam’s scraped knees. “He’ll be fine in a minute. But she needs to get that checked out.”

“No,” Helena says.

“Now’s not the time for stubborn bravado, Wells,” Claudia says and her tone is decisive. “We still need you tomorrow, and for a few more weeks after that.” She looks over her shoulder at Nielsen. “Artie, you don’t need her for the next scene – the aria is as good as set, you’ve got Bennet, Sam, Kelly and Todd…”

“But I need you here,” Nielsen says. “Send Nick to the doctor with her.”

“It’s Saturday, Artie.” Claudia puts disinfectant on Sam’s knees. “They need to head to the ER.” She looks over at Nick, who eyes her with trepidation. “Also, if you send Nick, you better hope there are some smelling salts at hand.” She shakes her head and then points at Myka across the room. “You take her, Bering.”

“What?” Myka says, and “What?” Helena echoes.

“You’re the only other one around here who speaks decent French,” Claudia says. “And Artie does not need you for the next couple of scenes.”

“I don’t need a doctor,” Helena insists, even though she looks a little pale.

“You need to be less stubborn,” Myka says as she walks over.

“You’ll need a doctor when she is through with you,” Claudia mutters while she puts Helena’s wrist in a makeshift sling. To Myka, she says. “Try not to kill her, will you?”

“How could I?” Myka says. “She just broke my weapon!”

“As if that would stop you,” Claudia says. “I’ll call you a cab.”

Myka _is_ considering wringing Helena’s neck with her bare hands as they wait for the cab, as Helena is silent and looks pointedly into any direction but at Myka. Myka still has managed to change, at least, but Helena is standing there in her houndstooth riding costume and her boots in the mid-day sun.

“We do not have to make conversation, you know,” Myka says and she sounds as grumpy as she feels. “It might be a few long waiting hours, but I’ll be happy to preserve my voice.”

“As if you would need to,” Helena scoffs.

Myka catches herself before she can clench her hands into fists. “I beg your pardon?!”

But just then, the cab is rolling up and they find themselves in the backseat in tense silence. Helena wants to pay as they arrive at the hospital, but she struggles to open her purse with her injured wrist, so Myka hands over the money and holds the car door for Helena, who has her lips pressed into a thin line and Myka realizes that she really is in pain.

“Thank you for taking me,” Helena says next to her as they wait for the administrative nurse to process Helena’s British insurance card.

The phrase echoes in Myka’s ears and for a moment, she is back an hour ago, with her hand on the wall and Helena trapped against her body, doing that small motion with her torso.

Myka clears her throat. “It’s not a problem.”

Helena chuckles. “It would be more convincing if you didn’t look as if you would prefer a root canal.”

“Perhaps not a root canal,” Myka allows. The nurse sends them down a set of corridors and Helena is silent again. Only after a minute, Myka understands that walking hurts Helena’s arm, too.

“Perhaps we can get you some painkillers,” she offers. “I’ll see if I can find a nurse.”

“That’s fine,” Helena brushes her off and she sits down gingerly when they finally reach a hall where at least another dozen of people are waiting. Most of them stare at Helena’s costume, which Helena takes with royal aplomb.

“This should be a lovely afternoon,” Myka mutters and she looks around for a vending machine because neither of them has had more than some breakfast so far, but there is none in sight.

Helena seems content to retreat into silence again as the seconds and minutes tick by.

“I would offer to play the piano, if there were one,” Myka finally says and the morning’s tension seems to have followed them here. “Sorry that Abigail couldn’t take you.” She does not sound sorry at all.

Helena turns in her seat. “Why would Abigail take me here? Her French is as bad as mine.”

Myka shrugs. “Since you seem to get along so well…” She leaves it at that.

“I hope we are becoming friends, yes,” Helena says slowly. “But also, she’s a very good accompanist.” Her eyes narrow. “Wait, is this about me spending time with Abigail?” She looks at Myka, far too amused, and Myka will absolutely not admit that she might have been jealous.

“Some of us actually have to practice,” Helena says, and she sounds resentful. “Not everyone simply opens their mouth in the morning with an effortlessly balanced tone!”

“What??”

Myka needs another minute to realize that this might have been a backhanded compliment.

“Do you think I don’t train?!”

“I know for a fact that you don’t get up at seven for _solfeggi_ ,” Helena says testily. “Because you run at that ungodly hour. And I’ve heard you after a night out, doing a _flawless_ Mozart aria. You could at least have messed up a little!”

All Myka can do is stare at Helena in bewilderment.  

The silence stretches on, and Helena looks down at her wrist. “Well, isn’t this embarrassing.”

“And awkward,” Myka adds after a few moments.

“And that,” Helena agrees. She shifts her wrist within the crumpled bandage.

Myka shakes her head. “What were you even thinking, launching yourself from that table?”

Helena shrugs. “The scene worked well.”

Myka snorts. “So do the laws of physics.”

“I’ve noticed,” Helena says wryly. But after a moment she adds, “Still, the scene did work out rather nicely.”

“It did,” Myka has to admit and she decides not to mention Sam’s scared expression, or to mention Sam at all. “Although you may have to redo it if you broke your arm over it.”

A nurse calls out Helena’s name at that moment and Myka accompanies her to the X-Ray department where she explains to the young doctor on duty how the fall happened. She bristles when he has to ask her twice to repeat something because he stumbles over the broader slant of her Quebecois. Then she waits outside, walking up and down the corridor until Helena appears again, sans bandage and with her 1920s blouse rolled up past her elbow.

The doctor looks at her in exasperation and then waves Myka over to ask her a few more questions.

“I didn’t even know you spoke French that well.” Helena says as they walk on to yet another waiting hall. “I thought you were from Toronto.”

“I moved there to study,” Myka says and she bites back the retort that she could just as well have been raised bilingual in Toronto, or anywhere else. They sit down on another set of nondescript plastic chairs in sterile blue. “I don’t know much about you, either.”

Helena looks at her for a second, and Myka’s gaze is drawn to the fall of her hair as Helena tilts her head to the side. “Is there anything you would like to know?”

“How about your second name?” Myka suggests.

Helena shakes her head. “I shall never tell.”

“How come you don’t speak better French?” Myka tries instead.

“I don’t really see much French repertory in my future,” Helena says and it sounds every bit as haughty as her headshot in the program book. She looks at Myka again. “But I will tell you that I made a promise to start using my second initial, and only that, once I had made it somewhere, as a tribute to my mother.”

“What does your mother do?” Myka asks carefully.

“She was an organist,” Helena says and by the look on her face it is clear that her mother has passed on.

“I am sorry,” Myka says, and adds hastily, “Not that she was an organist, I mean, but …”

“Thank you,” Helena says gracefully. “It’s been quite a few years already.”

Once more, there is silence, but it is not as tense any longer.

“So… Cardiff was you making it somewhere,” Myka says.

Helena straightens. “I’d like to think so.”

Myka does not take offense at the tone this time. “You should.”

Down this hall, there is a vending machine at least. “I’ll get us some water,” Myka says, and when she is standing there, she adds two candy bars to the tally.

“You are be spending too much time with Pete,” Helena declares. She looks at the candy bar with disdain, dangling it from two fingers of her good hand.

“We have been here for over two hours.” Myka reaches over and peels the edge of the wrapper back for Helena. “Shut up and eat your candy.”

Helena archs a brow, but she also smothers a smile, and she eats her candy bar.

The chocolate is too sweet and the minutes are ticking by on the clock on the wall. Myka looks to the side, at Helena’s riding boots, and she listens to her breathing. It’s something she has picked up from Rebecca, listening to other people breathe. Helena’s is a bit too shallow, punctuated enough to be an effort to try and block out pain.

Myka looks past her to see whether she can make out the light blue of a nurse’s gown, someone to ask about some painkillers.

Next to her, Helena stands. “I think I may have to use the restroom.”

Myka leans back and nods and only understands when Helena keeps looking at her. “Oh.” She gets to her feet and gestures at Helena’s wrist. “Of course. Your arm. Do you need any help?”

“Not in getting there, no,” Helena says and she sounds amused. “But I think I might need help with buttoning up again.” She gestures at the long line of hooks and buttons that hold the riding pants in place.

“Of course,” Myka says. “Just let me know.” And again, she is pacing in front of a hospital door, waiting for Helena, who has no qualms in opening the door and calling for her, with her pants sitting fashionably loose on her hips and raising a few heads along the waiting area.

And Myka finds herself on bent knee in front of Helena, in a tiled bathroom antechamber, while her fingers work on hooks and buttons. She counts tiny hounds’ teeth on the pattern in front of her so she does not have to count the rapid beats of her own heart. Now she could kick Helena in the shins, and punch her for good measure, but now it is not what she wants to do.

“Are you all right?”

There is something to Helena’s tone that makes Myka miss a button.

“As you are not wearing knee protectors,” Helena adds, and her hips move back and forth an inch when Myka has to use a little more force to push a bent hook into place.

“I just have no idea how people got in and out of their clothes back then,” Myka says under her breath.

“Probably not by themselves,” Helena comments easily from above and Myka looks up at her, startled for a second.

“I assume that is why people still had maids back then,” Helena says and she looks at herself in the barren mirror across the room. “And butlers.”

Myka pushes to her feet. “I guess so.”

“Mademoiselle Wells,” a nurse calls outside and Helena has drawn breath to speak, but she does not get to say what has been on her mind. They are led into another office where they wait again, with Helena resting on a thin, paper-clad cot. She did not protest the nurse’s orders, which may be the only outward admittance that she is in pain.

Finally, an older, sober-looking doctor who wears a tie underneath his white coat walks in and hangs up X-Rays of Helena’s wrist, poking at them with one finger and declaring, “Hair-line fissure.”

“Broken, but just barely,” Myka clarifies for Helena.

“Will I need to wear a cast?” Helena wants to know.

“A splint and a bandage will do,” the doctor says. “But no more – what was it? Jumping from tables?”

“Good luck with that,” Myka mutters and rolls her eyes when Helena grins.

The doctor looks back and forth between them.

“She’s a singer,” Myka supplies. “With the festival.”

“Oh, I know.” Now the doctor is smiling as he sets out to properly bandage Helena’s arm. “We have tickets for opening night.”

“I hope you will enjoy the show,” Helena says, and now her expression is much like her headshot, calculatedly inviting.

Other than a splint, Helena is given a hefty dose of painkillers that make her drowsy on the cab ride back. Myka has them taken to the guesthouse; the rehearsal hours are long since over.

“Thank you,” Helena says when Myka insists on leaving her at her room’s door. Her voice is softer, mellowed by the drugs and it still plays in Myka’s ears when she walks down the stairs, into the dining hall in search of something to eat that is not a candy bar.

“So I heard you spent the day with Miss Cardiff at the ER?” Pete sits at their usual table, instrument case next to him. “You like to live dangerously, huh. – Is the hospital still standing?”

“They gave her enough painkillers to knock out a horse.” Myka slides into the seat opposite him and reaches for the bowl of nuts on the table, and it feels as if they have been doing this for years, and not mere weeks.

“Here.” He holds out a long-necked bottle. “Since they probably didn’t give enough painkillers to _you_.” He twirls the beer bottle between his fingers when she hesitates. “It’s nonalcoholic, I still have to practice, as well. Speaking of which, you should probably give Claud a call and let her know that she does not have recast both your roles.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Myka says.

“With Miss Cardiff nearly strangling your tenor this morning?” Pete holds up his hands when Myka frowns at him. “That’s what Kelly said. And Amanda, who says she’s sorry she missed it.”

“He’s not _my tenor_ ,” Myka says and takes a sip of beer when she realizes that she has not thought about Sam all afternoon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Operatic Cliff Notes:
> 
> Chapter Quote:  
> \- “I like him; it would be nice if I could fall in love like this, without even wanting to – but what am I saying, what is getting in my head?”  
> \- The Papagenos and Papagenos: referencing the final “Pa-Pa-Pa” duet on extensive procreation between Papageno and Papagena in Mozart’s “Zauberflöte”.  
> \- “da capo” : common music term signifying “again from the start” (and if it’s Baroque, then with with embellishment and variation).  
> \- “Rusalka”: mermaid opera by Antonin Dvorak, featuring the famous “aria to the moon”.  
> \- The scene practiced at large in this chapter is the opening of Act II, “Non fuggirmi spietata”  
> \- solfeggi: a vocal excercise genre on “do-re-mi”; very popular in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Still in use today.


	8. Chapter 8

_Mi par, che a poco a poco_  
_cominciate a piacermi._  
_(Voglio farlo impazzir.)_

(Mozart, _La finta giardiniera_ )

 

“Where are _you_ headed, Indiana Jones?”

Myka is on her way out of the modest hallway of practice rooms, which lay still mostly silent on a Sunday morning, save for the sound of an oboe ahead to the right. And save for Pete who is standing in one open door, trombone in his grasp.

Myka is holding onto a wide-brimmed panama hat in turn, she is wearing comfortable sandals and a backpack and something covering her knees and shoulders because her plan for the day involves old churches.

“Sightseeing,” she says by way of explanation.

Pete leans against the doorframe. “We really need to talk about how you spend your free time.”

“Says the man with the remote control and the take-out pizza?”

“Fine.” Pete shrugs. “But if you want some actual fun today: we’re doing a Star Wars marathon. Play-along, sing-along.” He shoulders his trombone and segues into a rasped whinny. At Myka’s blank stare, he shakes his head. “Wookie war cry! Really, Myka –“

Pete raises his instrument again: three marcato beats, dropping a major third, a punctuated rise to the fifth, dropping a small third.

Myka laughs. “Even I know that one.”

“Good, not all is lost.” Pete breathes a sigh of relief.

“You really want to go through all six movies in one sitting?”

“Sacrilege!” Pete gasps. “Myka, like this my mother won’t let me play with you any longer. - Everyone knows that there are only three Star Wars movies!”

“Fine.” Myka raises her hands in defeat. “And on that note, I have a bus to catch.”

“So you’re actually off sightseeing?” Pete asks. “With Sam?”

Myka shrugs. “I don’t think so.” She has not seen Sam all morning.

“You know…” Pete hesitates for a moment. “If you need a few chores off your list for some quality time – I have to head to the Laundromat later anyway –“

Myka gives him a stern look. “You are not going through my underwear.”

“Unless you own a white bikini my size,” Pete says. “Or your size. Which you would be welcome to wear tonight.”

Myka puts on her hat as she leaves the guest house; she checks her watch and marches down the steps into the backyard.

“Did you switch your running route to a hiking trail?”

Helena is sitting on the stone steps, peering at her over the rim of her sunglasses. Her bandaged arm rests in front of her chest, and one sleeve of the blouse that she has thrown on over her top hangs down, is pushed by a breeze against her ribs, and then falls down again.

Myka draws the rim of her panama hat deeper into her face. “Sightseeing,” she explains for the second time this morning.

“Ah.” Helena balances a cup of something in her good hand and looks around Myka, as if she expects someone at her side. “Need a chaperone?” she asks then.

“You want to go sightseeing,” Myka repeats in disbelief. “With me.”

Helena shrugs. “You kept me company yesterday.”

“You enjoy sightseeing,” Myka says dryly, and it is not really a question.

“I'm still on painkillers,” Helena says. “I will most likely enjoy anything.” She sets down her cup and stands, the motion much more graceful than the previous day, and when she smiles, it is relaxed. “I think I am rather complacent at the moment.”

Myka has looked forward to a day on her own, Helena is still in no shape for a longer walk and she wears open-heeled sandals that she will lose in the first cobblestone street.

“In that case,” Myka hears herself say. “I don’t think the sights will object.”

Helena simply starts walking. “Where are we going?”

“Don’t you need to change into something?” Myka asks. “Or grab a bag?”

Helena looks at her and then pushes up her shades. “It looks like you did bring the entire Boy Scout equipment, so I should assume we are all set.”

“Didn’t you say something about being complacent?” Myka mutters. She adjusts her backpack and she is regretting her impromptu invitation already.

“Unless you would like us to check out the thermae,” Helena says. “In that case, I will have to opt for the sauna.”

Myka contemplates dragging Helena to the thermae, just to make her loose her cool, but Helena would most likely lounge on a sauna towel as if she owned the place, painkillers or not. She steers them towards the bus station instead.

“Entremont?” Helena asks, surprising Myka.

“I still want to see Arles, as well,” Myka says, even as she nods.

“The amphitheatre,” Helena says when she sits down next to Myka on the bus. “It has to be fascinating. – Who knows, we might sing at the Chorégies, eventually.”

“In Orange?” Myka laughs, but then they do not talk about future roles and career plans. She has not imagined herself walking through the ruins of Entremont with Helena at her side, much less Helena being good company, who waits indulgently while Myka leafs through her travel guide, quotes sections, and takes a few steps back if she missed something.

Helena does not mind the slow pace. She runs her hands along low stonewalls and ducks into eroded entryways. “Just imagine…” she mutters, and her fingertips brush across a lone column in a way that has Myka look over her shoulder to see if any of the site guards are following them around.

“Look at this,” Helena whispers, and she has hurried along already, to examine a set of broken pillars.

“That is…” Myka is looking through the small leaflet they have been handed at the entrance.

“Come on,” Helena says, and when Myka looks up, Helena is climbing onto a pillar, toppling precariously for a moment before she stands with her good arm outstretched and closes her eyes.

“You cannot go up there!” Myka says urgently, and she looks around again. “It says everywhere that… – Besides, if you fall down, you will break your arm for real!”

“Just imagine Norma up here!” Helena says with a gleam in her eye and she strikes a pose. _“Casta diva, che inargenti…”_

“Norma?” Myka huffs. “Seriously?”

“It says the settlement is Celtic!” Helena says with childlike delight.

“It’s also guarded,” Myka points out, but Helena goes through another two lines, standing on the pillar like an actual druid priestess with her hair in the breeze. She is fitting into the canopy of trees and the blue skies beyond in an image out of time, before Myka can finally persuade her to stop risking them being thrown out, because she would still very much like to see the rest of the settlement, thank you very much.

Helena grows quiet on their way back downtown, exhaustion catching up with her. Myka silently switches her plans from the Musée Granet – she wanted to see the exhibits from Entremont with the site fresh in mind – and steers them into a cool, quiet pew at St. Jean de Malte.

Perhaps it is too quiet as they glance up into the white central nave, bare of any distracting ornaments.

“It was the first Gothic church of the region,” Myka says, without even opening her guide. “13th century… Not the windows, obviously.”

Helena looks up at the stained glass, at the colorful shadows it leaves on the walls. “Obviously?”

“We could do the entire tour,” Myka says. “But I think you could use a break.”

“I’ll just sit here for a while,” Helena agrees. “But I would not want to keep you from exploring.”

“The Order of Malta had a chapel here first,” Myka says and she stays where she is. “But most of the paintings are 17th century. There is one setting by a Caravaggio disciple –”

Helena plucks the guide out of Myka’s fingers. “Did you study Singing or Art History?”

“A singer should always have a broader background in the Arts,” Myka says a little stiffly, and she is citing Rebecca. “Cultural movements, passions of a time…”

“Through a painting?” Helena turns a few pages without looking at them. “If you do not find it in yourself, how will you transport it?”

“How can I transport it, if I cannot recognize it in another setting?” Myka asks, and Helena does not protest this time.

“Tell me about that Caravaggio of yours.”

“It’s just a disciple,” Myka demurs.

“He must have had his passions, too,” Helena says. She places the guide on the chair between them; the book grazes Myka’s thigh.

“His name was Finson,” Myka says, and reaches for her book. Helena listens.

It is the only painting they look at – Myka finds it first – before they walk out into the street and Myka offers to call Helena a cab.

“My purse,” Helena says and turns half around. “It’s in my back pocket.” She looks at Myka over her shoulder. “I need to pay the cab driver somehow, and I do not want to ask him to do this.”

Myka looks at her own fingers, looks at the outline of a wallet in Helena’s pocket and she has hesitated enough already that it will be awkward. Her hand slides into Helena’s pocket, pulls, and she wishes she would not be quite so aware of the warmth that clings to the worn leather even as she holds it out to Helena.

“Open it,” Helena says. “If you please.” She nods at the sign on the other side of the street. “Could I buy you some ice-cream in exchange for the tour?” She clears her throat. “Or rather, could you buy us some ice-cream? I could hold one cone, but two…”

The ice-cream is cold – and it’s good – but Myka’s fingertips remember the warmth of the wallet as they sit on the stone steps in front of the church portal, despite the sun, and drops of sweet mint and lemon pool onto the pavement. Perhaps this is what the summer will feel like in retrospect: gleaming bright with possibility, unexpectedly sweet, and somewhat messy.

“Can I offer you a ride?” Helena asks when her cab arrives, but Myka nods at the Musée Granet across the street.

“I still have a few sights on my list.”

“It figures you would have an actual list for that,“ Helena says and it sounds fond rather than wry.

Myka lifts a hand when the car pulls away from the curb and she is smiling when she enters the museum. Among pieces from Entremont, she writes a long letter to Rebecca. Later, she has one of Pete’s favorite sandwiches – with beef and artichoke – and orders one extra for him, then she takes a walk through town to the cathedral.

“I went to the Laundromat with Hwan,” is how Pete greets her later when he hands Myka her clothes’ bag.

“And? How does he look in a white bikini?” Myka asks.

“I don’t know,” Pete says. “But I know he’s in the brass section in Darmstadt, and his mezzo girlfriend is looking for someone to cover twice for her as Dorabella this autumn.” He lets himself fall into a chair and crosses his hands behind his head. “Pays miserably, of course, but the house is pretty good. I told him you’d talk to him?” Then he all but topples over with the chair because Myka wraps him in an enthusiastic hug.

“Where do I find him?”

“Hogging the platters with the cuts at the buffet,” Pete says with resentment.

“Tonight?”

“Every night.” Pete still sounds resentful.

Myka reaches for her backpack. “Good thing I brought you back a sandwich.”

“That’s it,” Pete decides. “Sorry, Amanda. – Will you marry me, Indiana?”

What Myka does instead is call her sister.

“You should not even be close to a computer,” Tracy says by way of greeting. “You’re supposed to be lounging on some beach right now. It’s Sunday!”

“I went sightseeing!” Myka protests.

“You’re spending a summer at the Ri-vi-e-ra…” Tracy sighs. “And you go sightseeing. Hopeless.”

“That’s more or less what Pete said,” Myka admits.

“I like Pete,” Tracy says. “Who is Pete?”

“I’ll have you know I went to the beach this week,” Myka feels the need to point out. “I even got a sunburn!”

“Good,” Tracy says. “Now who is Pete?”

“A trombone with the festival orchestra.”

There is a peculiar pause. “Well,” Tracy says then. “Even _I_ know about mezzos and trombones.”

“It’s not like that,” Myka says immediately. “He’s much more interested in sandwiches. And in sopranos. Or gamers. – Also, I actually went out. More or less. With a tenor.”

“Sounds exciting,” Tracy says dryly. “More or less. Right up there with sightseeing. – I vote for the gamer.”

“Amanda isn’t –“ Myka tries to say, but then she gives up.

“Is that the one who won Cardiff Singer of the World?”

“No, _that_ one…”Myka is not quite sure how to put it. She sighs instead.

Tracy snickers. “That one is difficult, huh?”

“You have no idea,” Myka mutters. “Though at the moment, she is rather mellow. She got hurt during rehearsal yesterday and I spent the afternoon in the ER with her.”

“You and Miss Cardiff?” Tracy sounds entirely too gleeful.

“You and Pete would get along just dandy,” Myka huffs and for a moment, she is relieved no one from her family will make the track across the Atlantic to hear her in Aix. _It will be streamed online_ , Myka herself has reasoned, quenching the impulse of wanting them to be in the audience regardless.

“Pete again…” Tracy observes. “So the ER and sightseeing. You could do that here. You could do that alone in the woods, give or take. - You should have given me your plane ticket!”

“I went sightseeing with Helena today,” Myka says in defense.

“Is she attractive?” Tracy asks.

“Very,” Myka has to admit.

Tracy perks up. “Oh?”

“Not as much as she is obnoxious, though,” Myka adds, but Tracy is undeterred.

“Tell me more.”

“Very obnoxious,” Myka says, but come morning, it appears that Helena has accepted ice-cream and Celtic ruins as a ritual of truce, or that she has honed her brand of obnoxiousness in a very particular way.

“Myka! I have something for you,” she says and she steps right into the conversation Myka is having with Sam, who spent most of yesterday rehearsing. He managed to get hours at Hôtel Maynier d’Oppède, through some contact in artistic management, and now he is pondering the acoustics.

“Just a tad on the dry side ---“

“Myka,” Helena breathes with a smile. “Good morning.”

She hands her a slip of thick, shiny paper: a ticket.

“Since you were kind enough to endure my company over the weekend,” she says, and Myka does not know whether she is talking about the ER or about Entremont. “I wondered whether you might accept an invitation to Abigail’s solo recital. In recompensation.”

Myka glances over at the piano where Abigail is opening her score. “I didn’t know she had a recital coming up!”

“It’s not part of the official Young Artists Series,” Helena says with a side glance at Sam. “It’s with the Héritage program, just before we open. French repertory around 1900.” She looks at Myka expectantly.

“Of course,” Myka hurries to say. “Thank you. I would love to.”

“Good news,” Nielsen announces loudly as he walks past, pointing at both Myka and Helena. “You two can keep fighting. As long as you don’t put each other in the ER again.”

Myka wants to protest that she had nothing to do with Helena’s fall, but instead she tucks away the ticket – she did not know that Abigail has a solo career – and shrugs into her rehearsal outfit.

“Your third act aria, Bennet, and the recit beforehand,” Nielsen says. “But the scene is not really about you.” Bennet purses his lips at that, but Nielsen is undeterred. “You want to daydream of your elusive gardener, and then there’s these two who won’t leave you alone. You barely get in a word as it is.”

Bennet does not even have to pretend to look annoyed with the two of them when Helena barges onto the scene first, Myka close on her heels.

_“Uncle, I want you to give me my Count, still today.”_

“ _Very well_ ,” Bennet concedes.

“ _My Lord_!” Now Myka plants herself firmly opposite Helena. _“I desire Arminda to be my wife. Still today.”_

Bennet smiles at that. _“Better!”_

Helena takes his arm and looks up at him. _“You will understand the turmoil of a niece.”_

 _“You will understand the pain of a friend,”_ Myka tries to interject gravely.

_“The contract is already set up!”_

_“She gave me her word!”_

Bennet covers his ears ans groans. _“Oh, isn’t this just great…”_

_“Believe me, the Count –“_

_“Your niece – you should know…”_

_“Will you both be quiet!”_ Bennet begs.

 _“You need to order him – ”_ Helena demands, and Myka adds immediately,

_“You need to make her – ”_

Helena pushes her away. _“Listen...”_

 _“Listen – ”_ Myka sidesteps her, pointedly cutting her a wide berth.

Between them, Bennet hangs his head. _“I’ve had it.”_

 _“Quick – ”_ Helena pushes again and Myka curbs the impulse to push her back.

_“What do you say?”_

“Stop,” Nielsen orders, even as Bennet draws breath to start his aria.

“This does not work,” Helena declares coolly, and she looks at Myka just as coolly as she says it, as if they have not shared ER chairs and ice-cream and breathless glances at history over the past few days.

“Why don’t you tell _him_?” Myka says, pointing at Bennet and smarting from the dismissal.

“Bennet, you’re still the juridical authority here,” Nielsen cuts in. “Don’t let them undermine you. The scene is fun, but it’s not ridiculous. You hold power over who can marry whom. Make that known! – And as for you two…”

“We’re just yapping like dogs,” Helena states, unhappy with their try.

“Try something more physical,” Nielsen suggests.

“I did!” Helena protests, and she turns to point at Myka. “But I cannot push if you won’t push back!”

“Ramiro doesn’t do pushing,” Myka maintains. She chances a glance at Helena’s bandaged wrist as she says it, and Helena immediately bristles.

“I’m not made of sugar.”

Myka does not say, _As if_. She says, “Physical is fine, as long as it is _warranted_.”

“Warranted? Fine.” Helena reaches over and pokes Myka with two fingers. “Tag! You’re it!”

“That’s your ploy?” Myka asks and she refuses to laugh. “Really? Very mature.”

Helena throws up her hands and looks at Artie. “See? Yapping.”

“Again,” Nielsen says. “It can to be over the top, but your bickering needs to simmer underneath.”

“Stamped and with three copies?” Helena says, and she looks at Myka.

“Perhaps skewered with a sword?” Myka tosses back.

“Yes, hold that impetus!” Nielsen calls, and motions for Abigail to begin the scene anew.

Helena tries to take up space this time. She brushes imaginary pieces of lint off Bennet’s suit and bats her lashes at him, taking his arm to make him turn her way, so that Myka is forced to cut in physically and she knows that Helena is doing it on purpose.

She takes hold of Bennet’s other arm, and Helena, lacking options with just one good hand, pushes Myka out of the way, hip first.

_“You will understand the turmoil of a niece.”_

Myka decides her next move in a split second, ducking underneath Bennet’s arm and ending up in front of him again.

_“You will understand the pain of a friend.”_

Helena picks up on the momentum immediately and wedges herself in between Myka and Bennet, mindless of her injured wrist.

_“The contract is already set up!”_

Bennet tries to step away, and now they are arguing over his shoulder even as he is walking, looking at each other as if their lines were not intended for Bennet at all.

_“She gave me her word!”_

_“Believe me, the Count –“_

_“Your niece, you should know ---“_

_“Will you both be quiet!”_ Bennet thunders, harsh enough to make them both jump. For two seconds, they offer a frozen tableau, then Helena starts again.

_“You need to order him –“_

_“You need to make her –“_

They keep looking at each other. Nielsen does not call for a stop and Bennet launches into his aria.

_“My dear Sir… I would like to say…_

_that things are… just give me a minute here! --_

_My dear Lady – I should think –_

_But let me talk!”_

“Why would he say ‘but let me talk’ if we aren’t interrupting him?” Helena whispers to Myka, and then she pushes her with her good arm, making Myka stumble forward and nearly tripping Bennet in the process.

“As if I would ever look at you again!” Helena scoffs, catching Bennet in between them again.

“Oh, yes? You’re looking at me right now!” Myka tries to keep her voice down, at least somewhat.

“Too bad that all you do is looking!” Helena taunts her.

“To – wha---?” Myka is caught out of the scene for a moment. “Could you just for once take this seriously?!”

Bennet stops singing. “They’re messing up my aria!”

“I like it,” Nielsen decides, before he adds gleefully, “Well, then make them stop!”

 _“But Let me talk! But let me talk!!”_ Bennet all but bellows, frustrated beyond his role. He grabs both of them by their necks and holds them apart.

Myka readjusts her stance to keep her shirt collar from putting pressure on her throat.

“Why don’t you try to hit me over the head with a legal brief?”Helena has to balance on tiptoes, but it does not slow her down. “Perhaps I’d marry you that way!”

Bennet is not impressed with either of them using him for a human jungle gym, until he realizes that his struggling is drawing laughs, even from Nielsen.

“You weren’t all that averse to marrying me before.” Myka improvises, because Helena is having entirely too much fun at her expense. “Right after you swiped all those briefs right off my desk!”

In the audience, Kelly whoops.

“Including your own,” Helena adds for good measure, and now Bennet breaks the scene because he is laughing too much to keep singing.

“That’s it!” Nielsen seems happy enough.

With Bennet playing along, they have blocked the rest of the aria in short order, trying out wild poses until they end up in one tangle of limbs on the floor. Bennet then makes a show of crawling away in a huff, leaving Myka and Helena to stare at each other.

 _“Ramiro, let’s be real.”_ Helena starts, and she is a little out of breath and disheveled. _“What do you hope to gain from a woman who despises you instead of loving you?”_

 _“That you will finally come back to it and remember,”_ Myka says and she is more aware of Helena’s breathing than of her own. “ _My sincere love for you, your promises…”_

“Break!” Nielsen calls. He nods at Myka. “We will work on that recit together with your next aria.”

“Legal briefs on the desk?” Helena asks under her breath while she tries to stand. “That’s the scope of your fantasies?”

“Can it, Helena,” Myka says easily. “And I said _off_ the desk.”

Sam is waiting for her with two mugs of tea, while the wardrobe assistant whisks Helena away.

“Perhaps you’d…” Sam starts and when he stops, Myka notices that he is nervous. “Would you like to get dinner sometime next week? After my recital, of course. To celebrate? There’s a very nice place downtown and I know one of the maîtres –”

There is no reason not to accept his invitation.

“Perhaps we could work around it with some gloves,” the wardrobe assistant suggests from somewhere behind them, fussing over Helena’s wrist.

“Or if we could have the bandage in a matching color.” Even the costume designer is on set today. “We need to make another appointment.”

“Sure,” Myka says and smiles at Sam. “I would like that.”

“Could I not simply have injured my hand?” Helena says with wry practicality. “I hear I am somewhat temperamental. I could have a history of cracking my knuckles on my fiancés.”

“And of making me redo scenes,” Nielsen grouses, but as it turns out, Helena refuses to be hindered by her wrist.

“I don’t want you jumping from tables,” Nielsen says when he retries the scene of the accident after the break, but Helena seems adamant to prove to him and everyone in the room that she does not need any changes, and still jumps onto the now replaced table.

It does not surprise Myka, though she sees Sam rolls his eyes onstage, and she concentrates on Helena’s singing because of course Helena would not mark the toughest of her arias, not even while dragging a well-built tenor across the stage one-handedly.

It’s the small things, Myka decides. The way Helena’s shoulders seem to grow harder when the aria sets in, strings racing in wild turmoil. She draws it in, and then moves, suddenly matching her speed to that of the aria instead of using the song line as a stand-in, which happens in most of the productions Myka has seen in preparation, and she has gone through everything on the market.

This is one of those pieces that sound perpetually out of breath, particularly in action, but Helena works around it. She shapes the repeated _“sdegno”_ torn and guttural, more reminiscent of verismo, completely over the top and Myka is sure that Hugo will make her go back on it. But still, it lends an edge of tragedy that she manages to pull off, something out of time that reminds Myka of yesterday, Helena standing on a pillar in Entremont like an ancient priestess.

_“Questa mercede, ingrato, tu rendi all’amor mio?”_

Helena advances on Sam, with a heavy ritardando that gives her a regal stance. Abigail plays along smoothly and Myka realizes that they must have rehearsed this beforehand. It offers Helena space to grow softer for the end of the B part, giving the disjointed phrase of _“ira e pietà”,_ of ire and sympathy, a near lyrical quality. She cradles Sam’s head against her chest, strokes fingers through his hair with tenderness and Myka rejects the image instinctively, even though she is not sure of whom she is jealous in this moment. Then Helena slides back into pure anger and drags Sam onto the table, just as they had rehearsed before, only that she reaches for the epée with her left hand and not just Myka sucks in a breath when it seems that the table will topple over again.

“Stop!” Nielsen is exasperated as he halts the scene. “Tone it down a notch! You’re not DiDonato and I don’t want you to break a leg in addition.”

Helena shrugs. “Fine.” She shifts the weapon in her grasp, still straddling Sam, and does not break the tension.

“One could think you’d really want to strangle me,” Sam cracks out from underneath her.

Helena smiles in a way that sends a small shiver down Myka’s spine. “Really?”

And Myka has little doubt that Helena, caught up in the scene, would risk breaking her leg or attacking Sam on the table beyond staging conventions.

 

* * *

Next Level Nerd Notes (which exceeded the cracater limit of the comment window):

Since some of you are nerdtastic enough to listen to the music while reading, I compiled a list of markings on video productions available on YouTube at the moment (Feb. 2016) that should cover all the relevant scenes mentioned in the story. (if there is anything missing, just let me know).  
Some scenes are often cut, shortened, or moved around, so some of these three have limits (but are still worth a look/listen) - the most complete is the - IMHO - very nice Lille production, which also has the wittiest cembalo playing (duh, Emanuelle Haim, though I don't know if she plays herself in this one). This should, hopefully, enable everyone of you who wants to listen to the scenes in question to find them and enjoy them.

 **Markings in the[2006 Zurich production](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dWdg2YtrAvY)** :   
Finale 1 (First encounter): 1:11:00  
Recit. Start Act II (spoken, some cuts): 1:27:50  
(followed by Arminda’s 2nd aria)  
Recit „A letter from Milan“: 1:50:00  
Finale 2 (Ramiro enters with the fake headlights): 2:25:00  
Jungle Gym Recit (aria cut) & Recit (shortened)/3rd Aria Ramiro: 2:41:54  
Final Recit: 2:59:45

 **Markings in the** [Salzburg 2006 (M22) production](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pAtNYVi4EzQ) (back online in full, don’t know for how long):   
First Arminda aria: 44:00  
Finale 1 (first encounter): 59:40  
Recit Start Act II (fencing scene): 1:13:38  
(followed by Arminda’s 2nd aria)  
Recit „A letter from Milan“: 1:27:40  
Followed by „Dolce d’amor compagna“, 1:29:45  
Finale II (with Arminda/Ramiro fighting): 2:07:20  
(Jungle Gym scene: cut)  
Recit „Ramiro, let’s be real“  & third aria Ramiro: 2:15:06  
Last Recit: 2:33:00

 **Markings for the[Lille 2014 Giardiniera ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OrSF-IuKwic)** (also back online, swift downloading advised, last time it was gone within few weeks since there is a fairly recent DVD of it on the market), which would be my first choice here (fewest cuts, and well done):   
First Ramiro Aria: 0:12:00  
First Arminda Aria: 0:36:44  
Finale 1 (first encounter): 1:00:00  
Recit Start Act II (fencing scene): 1:15:20  
(followed by Arminda’s 2nd aria)  
Recit „A letter from Milan“: 1:38:00  
Recit „Listen, Arminda...“ / „Dolce d’amor“: 1:42:00  
Finale 2 – Ramiro appears in the garden: 2:12:00  
Finale 2 – Ramiro & Arminda fight: 2:15:00  
Jungle Gym Scene & Aria: 2:29:30  
Recit „Ramiro, let’s be real“ & third aria Ramiro: 2:32:00  
Final Recit: 2:48:00

One more **Jungle Gym scene** (since it tends to be cut):  
in **the[Drottningholm 1990](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=INle-jj1vYo) staging** :  
2:00:50 (followed directly by Ramiro's third aria)

oh, and the one from **[Aix-en-Provence 2012](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JxQr5hKKTUg)**  
is at 2:25:55,  
directly followed by the full recit that precedes Ramiro's third aria (i.e. the one that I will return quite a few more times in this story)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Operatic Cliff Notes:  
> \- Chapter Quite: It seems to me that, bit by bit, I'm beginning to like you. (I want to drive him mad)  
> \- The Entremont settling (Celtic, pre-Roman) is excaved and accessible; mostly it's low stone walls and a worship site - I may have taken a few liberties regarding pillars and management. The other sites mentioned are the Roman Amphitheatre of Arles, an hour's drive from Aix, which is sometimes used for theatre events, and the Amphitheatre in Orange, which hosts the famous Chorégies d'Orange opera festival every summer.  
> \- Norma: belcanto pinnacle opera by Vincenzo Bellini (1831) about a Druid priestess who is secretly in a relationship with the Roman enemy leader with whom she has two children. Troubles arise when he tries to exchange her for a younger model among her priestesses, who then decides to stick to Norma instead. Most famous aria: Norma's prayer to the moon, "Casta Diva". And, yes, it's been associated with Callas A LOT, so have some Montserrat Caballé instead, on the best night of her life, at Chorégies d'Orange in 1974: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dNsgywuMqHI If you will watch only one belcanto clip in your life, make it this one, and take note of her decrescendo into pianissimo as of 5:52, and then the smooth portamento down. That *is* belcanto. That's all you ever need to know about it.  
> \- St. Jean de Malte is one of the Aix landmarks, it really was the first Gothic Church of the Provence, even if the interior has seen various redecorations over the centuries; the wiki has the details covered.  
> \- Dorabella in Darmstadt: it's common practice in German Stadttheater system that you've got to organize and pay your own replacement if you're under contract and want to have a night off to take on a more well-paying gig. So a singer would look at up-and-comings that are still affordable to fill their spot (some general contract regulations apply).  
> \- mezzos and trombones: A lot of mezzos are dating trombone players. Enough to have it be a joke.  
> \- The recitative and Podestà aria: to have Arminda and Ramiro keep fighing over the aria of the Podestá is something that has already been done in the charming 2014 Lille production staged by David Lescot (it's out on DVD - the YT copy has been moved to private, unfortunately).  
> \- Helena rehearsing "Vorrei punirti, indegno": it's a mean, seria style aria. Fast, dramatic, with lots of jumps and very hard to manage breath-wise. (or you could just push the count into a Venus Flytrap and sing the hell out of it, as Véronique Gens does here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MkVEk2CltMU)  
> \- “Questa mercede, ingrato, tu rendi all’amor mio?”: "This is the reward, ungrateful one, that you give me in exchange for my love?"  
> \- Verismo is the late19th/early 20th century "realist" style with cries and moans and sobs and screams; a ritardando is a purposeful, momentary slowing down of the tempo, usually against the beat.  
> \- Joyce DiDonato famously broke her leg during a London performance of Rossini's "Barbiere" in 2009 and finished the evening on a crutch, only later being diagnoses with the fracture. She then stayed on for the entire run, singing in a wheelchair.


	9. Chapter 9

_Tra questa e quella_  
_son imbrogliato_  
_no so risolvere_  
_non so che far_.

(Mozart, _La finta giardiniera_ )

 

“Anchor the phrase here… and here.” Hugo follows the vocal line with a finger. “See? Make it rounder here.” He plays directly from Myka’s score, swiveling back and forth on the piano bench while they work on her third aria.

Myka nods and tries to pencil in the accents without crowding an unperturbed Hugo. His own score lies to the side, covered in dog-ears and colored post-its, and the accompanist who had originally been scheduled to play for them has long since disappeared. These are Myka's favorite rehearsals, when it is just the two of them, at ease with their shared, unpretentious focus on the music.

“Now, here again…”

Hugo signals another arc and Myka’s brow is furrowed in concentration. Helena’s rendition of _“Vorrei punirti, indegno”_ yesterday has egged her on and she soaks up every little bit of advice Hugo is offering.

“This is the companion piece to Arminda’s second aria,” Hugo himself has pointed out. “Very _seria_ style. Grand drama, grand passion, lots of temptation to lose the line and gasp for air like a fish out of water.”

Myka hopes that this is not a critique of her attempts so far.

“There are nothing but outbursts throughout the A part, but you need a line – this is still Mozart.”

And so Myka is breathing, and trying to build a line, and she knows down to her bones that this is where she is supposed to be.

“The hardest part is the second phrase, isn’t it?” Hugo nods at her. “You’ve got all that ire in the first and you can’t really top that.” He reaches for her pencil. “You can sort out the energy of that with Artie, but musically ---“ He links the first phase to the second. “Keep the tension here. That’s the key point. And then just take all the wild stuff that happens in the orchestra –” His hands tear across the keys. “All that? It’s a huge pendulum, moving back and forth… but you’re on top of it. Don’t forget that.”

Myka struggles to come up with a short phrase to pin that down and leaves a mark on the page for later. After her rehearsals with Hugo, she finds herself for an hour or two hunched over her score, writing out his comments in the margins. She has already learned so much from him. But next to the solo rehearsals, she also loves the ensemble ones, especially now, when they get to work together with the orchestra and it feels like one shared breath, even as Myka can make out the different lines and the voices of her colleagues, and she is soaring among them.

She is relieved that she gets a chance to work through this aria before she has to try it onstage. In the end, more than a week passes since that rehearsal where she and Helena manhandled Bennet between them, only then Nielsen puts the scene back onto the roster.

It is the day of Sam’s recital and he has been complaining about being scheduled for many heavy scenes with Amanda these past few days. Claudia seems to have organized a breather for him, by the looks of it, since he is mostly there for scene transitions today and is going over his concert scores the rest of the time.

“Remember, physical!” Nielsen says when Claudia arranges Bennet, Myka and Helena on the floor.

“No need to tell _me_ ,” Helena says and Myka glares at her.

She would prefer to do Bennet’s aria once more instead of jumping into this moment cold, but Bennet crawls away, making a very undignified exit for a bailiff, and leaves Ramiro and Arminda seated awkwardly on the ground, too close to one another.

 _“Ramiro, let’s be real.”_ Helena says, standoffish. She has been standoffish for the past few days in general, nervous about an audition for a new agency, the name of which she will not mention.

“Oh, does it start with a G., too?” Myka had finally said.

“You don’t even have a website yet,” Helena had bitten back, and that had been the end of it.

_“What do you hope to gain from a woman who despises you instead of loving you?”_

_“That you will finally come back to it and remember,”_ Myka says, but she knows that it lacks the note of longing even as she says it. “ _My sincere love for you, your promises…”_

 _“Yes, that’s all true,”_ Helena cuts her off. _“But I have no more time for this. Take my advice: Since I can’t love you anymore, get over me, get over it, and leave.”_

She stands, leaving Myka to scramble to her feet, too. _“Just to appease you,”_ Myka scoffs. _“Cruel one, I’m fleeing your from your gaze. Perhaps you’ll regret it someday.”_

Helena shrugs. _“Do what you will.”_

Myka is left staring after her as Abigail segues into her aria.

_“Sure, run into somebody else’s arms, you mean, ungrateful woman…!”_

“Stop!” Nielsen shakes his head. “Again. And this time, try not to look as if you are arguing with your accountant over the tax returns.”

“Fine,” Myka says and squares her shoulders.

“Fine,” Helena echoes, and it sounds like a challenge accepted. She sits even closer as they move back into position, and this time, she waits. She waits until Myka and everyone else in the room is very aware of their proximity.

 _“Ramiro, let’s be real.”_ It is still standoffish, but there is an edge of challenge to it. _“What do you hope to gain from a woman who despises you instead of loving you?”_

Myka takes a breath, and she reminds herself of Helena in Entremont, of Helena dancing next to her in a crowded club. _“That you will finally come back to it and remember…”_ There is the note of longing she has aimed for, and she leans in for good measure. _“My sincere love for you, your promises…”_

 _“Yes, that’s all true,”_ Helena admits, but instead of getting up, she moves in and pushes Myka backwards with her good hand, leaving Myka sprawled on her back and struggling to lift her head as Helena goes on. _“But I have no more time for this.”_ Contrary to her words, she stays, shifts, her knees grazing Myka’s thigh. _“Take my advice: Since I can’t love you anymore, get over me, get over it… and leave.”_ She is staring at Myka, challenging Ramiro to make the first move away.

 _“Just to appease you,”_ Myka says and sitting up, slowly, brings her even closer to Helena. _“Cruel one, I’m fleeing your from your gaze.”_ She breaks the moment and stands. _“Perhaps you’ll regret it someday.”_

Helena shrugs, as if trying to shake off the moment. _“Do what you will.”_

Once more, Myka readies herself to start her aria, places the focus along her temples and her eyes, connects with her center, but Nielsen interrupts again.

“Better. But now there’s no more steam for Ramiro’s aria. He needs a reason to explode here.”

Helena cants her head to the side, taxes Nielsen first, then Myka. “Oh, I think I can give her one.”

“Him,” Myka mutters, but Helena is unfazed.

“That, too.”

And Myka might just be a little bit nervous as they start the scene again, so she emboldens Ramiro a little more in reaction. _“My sincere love for you, your promises…”_ rings with new confidence, and Helena allows Arminda to react to it.

 _“Yes, that’s all true,”_ she breathes and Myka is distracted by the tone, enough for Helena to make her tumble backwards when she pushes her.

 _“But I have no more time for this.”_ There is anger, and frustration, and her legs are already touching Myka’s, so it takes Helena just a small motion to settle herself astride Myka’s hips. _“Take my advice.”_ Her eyes are on Myka’s, but then they are following the single finger that she is trailing down Myka’s shirtfront. _“Since I can’t love you anymore…”_ She pauses and Myka cannot think beyond the warmth against her stomach, the sight of Helena above her, and for a moment, she thinks she has missed her prompt.

“ _Get over me,”_ Helena demands then, and her entire hand rests against Myka’s shirt. “ _Get over it. And leave.”_ She uses her hand to push herself upright to a safer distance, but that also causes her hips to do a little roll and Myka cannot think at all. She just _wants_ , with an acuteness that catches her completely off guard. She stares at Helena and Helena looks at her as if she knows.

 _“Just to appease you,”_ Myka remembers to say, and it comes out a wheeze. She focuses on her breathing to get the next phrase right, lets the tension expand to her sides, but that only pushes her skin closer against Helena. _“Cruel one, I’m fleeing your from your gaze.”_ She is not fleeing anywhere, though. She is taking shallow breaths and tries not to blush.

“What is going on here?” Nielsen demands to know when neither of them tackles the next line.

Helena turns to look at him with aplomb. “Nothing.”

“At all,” Myka supplies, raising her head from where she is still on the floor, effectively locked in by Helena’s legs.

“The contact is a good idea.” Nielsen nods at Helena. “But too similar to your earlier scene with the Count. And you can’t lose momentum here. This is too tentative. Myka - ”

Helena moves away, and Myka sits up and breathes normally again. “I know,” Myka says. “But like this, would Ramiro move?” There is laughter at this, and Helena’s stands out against the others’. “This is what he wants, right? Why would he leave?”

“You are right,” Helena nods, and she is all work again. “I have to break it up. Unless…”

Myka is looking at the curve of her jaw and the fall of her hair, momentarily transfixed, and she curses her reaction. She does not need a bad case of attraction, least of all to her stage partner.

“Again,” Nielsen demands.

Myka sits up straighter and refuses to think about the prospect of Helena’s thighs smoothed against either side of her.

And it is different this time. Instead of pushing further, Helena leans back, enough to have Myka be the one to move in when she gets to _“My sincere love for you, your promises!”_

 _“Yes, that’s all true,”_ Helena agrees and she is all but reclining, unfazed by Myka's approach. For a moment, she breaks the scene and nods, motioning Myka even closer, but apparently, it is still not close enough for her liking because she takes hold of Myka's shirtfront and prompts Myka to move on top of her, reversing their last take.

 _“But I have no more time for this.”_ Helena says and it is unclear whether her Arminda wants Ramiro to leave, or to fall forward and kiss her senseless. Myka is staying very still, her weight on her knees so that she will not actually settle across Helena’s hips. She feels warm enough as it is, and she does not need Helena to catch onto it.

 _“Since I can’t love you anymore…”_ And now Helena’s hand – her good hand – brushes up Myka’s leg, slowly, and Myka tries to breathe in and out, in and out. “ _Get over me.”_ The brush of Helena’s hand turns into a grasp. “ _Get over it. And… ”_ And she is tugging on Myka’s hip, using her for leverage to sit up and there’s no balancing on anyone’s knees now.

Helena takes another breath and Myka can feel the shift of muscle and skin where she is pressed against her. “ _…leave,”_ Helena sighs and looks straight at Myka.

Time expands, enough to count the single lashes framing Helena’s gaze, and Myka curses herself.

 _“Just to appease you,”_ she says, and she has done enough stage work to realize that turning the words on their heads works perfectly here, even if it makes her own head swim. But she is the one who has to move away, with Helena – Arminda – stretched out underneath her. Myka hesitates. She imagines Ramiro so very tempted, but also insulted that Arminda still thinks him so readily at her feet. _“Cruel one, I’m fleeing your from your gaze.”_

Myka turns away with a note of sadness and it prompts Helena to reach out once more, a tentative had to her shoulder.

Myka turns back around, and Helena’s eyes at a close distance eclipse everything else.

 _“Perhaps you’ll regret it someday,”_ Myka hears herself say as Helena stares at her, and for one maddening moment, she is convinced that Helena will kiss her, right here on the rehearsal stage.

A cough breaks the tension and Myka needs a moment to recognize Sam’s voice and by then, she catches the triumphant smirk on Helena’s face.

_“Do what you will.”_

And now Myka is angry. If this is a show to goad on Sam because of whatever beef Helena has with him, she refuses to be a pawn in it. She shoves Helena away.

_“Sure, run into somebody else’s arms, you mean, ungrateful woman…”_

She falls into the phrase just like Hugo told her not to, losing too much breath in the first half. _“Perfida! Ingrata!”_ she snaps out, again and again, struggling to catch up to her own impetus.

Helena has Arminda retreat, but does not flee from the accusations, and Myka is thankful that she can play her outbursts off Helena’s reserved expression, though even like this, she feels like she is running behind.

“You need more color,” Nielsen says, when Myka has crumpled against a wall for the B part of her aria and Helena has walked offstage. “I can see your ire, but it you need to harness it. Right now, you make a huge effort, and it is dissipating into thin air.”

Myka nods, smarting from the critique, but she knows Nielsen is right.

“Again,” Nielsen says. “Do less. – Use Helena, if it helps. She is your target.”

Myka does not find the words ‘use’ and ‘Helena’ in direct succession helpful at all and she is chagrined when, on second try, it is Helena who is carrying her through the scene by taking in Myka’s fury and keeping up the tension. Myka barely has to move. Voice first, she remembers. She does not have to do it, she can _sing_ it. She only gets into Helena’s face at the end, pushing her offstage without actually touching her.

_“A cruel, spiteful fury…. that’s all I’ll ever be to you!”_

“Much better,” Nielsen calls out when Myka slides to the floor again with the subdued opening chords of the B part.

 _“Since you want me miserable, out of your sight ---“_ Myka raises her head, looking nowhere in particular, but she is acutely aware of the silhouette to the side, arms crossed, watching her. _“…I will die miserably.”_

She gets back up, slams a fist against the prop wall behind her with enough force to rattle the wood.

“ _Run into somebody else’s arms!”_

It is more difficult without Helena next to her as an aim, but when she finishes, out of breath in a way that Rebecca would not approve, Bennet mutters, “Remind me not to piss you off, Bering.”

Nielsen wipes a hand across his brow. “Very good,” he says and then waves away Myka’s pleased smile. “But if you do this scene too well, there’s no selling your getting back together with her in the end.”

“I think Arminda should hear this. All of it,” Helena says before Myka can get a word in. She walks back onto the scene. “I don’t just need to see you mad, I also need to see you hurting.” She looks at Myka, and Myka studiously looks anywhere but into her eyes. “It’s important for my change of heart. This is what makes me reconsider.”

“All right,” Nielsen says, as he always does. “Show me.”

Myka looks at Helena’s hairline, somewhat miffed at the idea of Helena hogging the stage throughout the very minutes when Myka herself can show her biggest range of the evening. “It makes sense for the story,” she agrees reluctantly.

“You can still push me offstage in the reprise,” Helena says and smiles.

The aria is easier to build with Helena onstage, even with her lingering out of sight, watching Ramiro as he breaks down, then coming back to him and Myka yelling at her until she leaves. Of course, it also means _Helena onstage_ , which will command a better part of the audience attention, and Myka is adamant not to fall victim to that same pattern.

“You should ask Nielsen to change it back, at least the reprise,” Sam says afterwards. “It’s _your_ aria.”

“We also argue all over Bennet’s aria,” Myka says and if she feels petty about the scene, she will still not admit to it. “And she’s manhandling you in two of her arias.”

Sam chuckles. “It’s nice to see her at the receiving end for a change.”

Myka recalls Helena stretched out underneath her, and shifts from one foot to the other. “I need to head in. Final wardrobe fittings,” she says. Helena stands across the hall at the piano, and Myka really does not need to be aware of that. She digs through her bag instead. “Since I won’t see you before tonight…”

It’s a trinket, at typical opening night gift: a small vase, too small to carry more than a few daisies, with a band of flowers outlined at the rim, because Sam is called _Belfiore_ in the opera and tonight is a big night for him.

“Good luck,” Myka says, and she kisses his cheek.

“That’s sweet, but you shouldn’t have,” Sam says. He turns the glass in his grasp. “I’m not really into superstitions.” But he smiles, and holds onto her hand a little longer. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Myka misses the entire lunch break in fittings and picks up a sandwich for herself afterwards. She brings an extra one for Pete, even though he has had lunch.

“Your point being?” Pete says, and chews. It is Saturday afternoon, and he is lounging on Myka’s bed. “Amanda is out wining and dining some agency representative tonight,” he says. “But she told me to keep the controllers at the ready for later.”

Myka looks up from where she tugs her dress into place – not a concert dress, it does not fall lower than her knees – and asks, “Is that code for something?” She reaches for her earrings. “No, wait. I don’t want to know.”

Pete shrugs and takes another bite. “Fjut yourfelf.” He sits up straighter when he sees Myka’s neckline. “What are you getting all dressed up for? Don’t tell me you’re going out with Mr. Hunkentenor again.”

“Not going out,” Myka says while she fiddles with an earring. “It’s his recital.”

“Go easy on him,” Pete says and eyes Myka’s outfit. “Like this, the poor chap won’t be able to concentrate on his singing.”

Myka glares at him.

“Then again, that one will always concentrate on his singing,” Pete adds.

“If you ever switch to tenor, you’d do great in the sassy nurse department,” Myka tells him.

Pete ponders this in earnest for a moment. “But you can’t have a sassy nurse without boobs.”

Myka bats him over the head with her purse. “And don’t get any crumbs in my bed!”

The concerts at Hôtel Maynier d'Oppède happen in the open courtyard and the gravel leaves dust on her heels when Myka walks up to her front row seat, right next to a fountain that holds no water at the moment. A stage with a back wall for better sound projection has been set up, complete with a grand piano. The crunch of the gravel mingles with the rustle of leaves from above and Myka’s first thought at this wildly romantic setting is that Sam will hate the noise sources that are beyond his control.

The night is perfectly mild and Myka nods at Sam’s agent, seated at the other side of the fountain. Two seats over on her own side, a very heavy-set man takes his place. Myka looks at her purse and listens to the steps around her. The seat next to her remains free until the lights are beginning to dim, then a last set of steps walks up the gravel.

“Good evening.”

Helena slides into the empty chair, ticket in hand, and Myka forgets that she is trying not to look at Helena anymore. Most of the concertgoers around them wear summer dresses and shirts, Sam’s agent may be the only one in a three-piece suit, and it is enough to make Myka feel out of place in her little black dress. But Helena has her hair up in a chignon and pearls in her ears. A slim pendant is hanging from her neck, down the neckline of something stunningly turquoise. She is striking.

“What are you doing here?” Myka whispers.

Helena crosses one leg over the other, drawing Myka’s gaze to the extravagant heels she is wearing. “Supporting a colleague?”

Myka scoffs. “Sure.”

“Checking out the competition?” Helena offers instead, but at that moment, applause sets in and Sam walks onto the stage clad in a tailored tux, with his pianist two steps ahead. He smiles at Myka in passing and if he catches sight of Helena next to her – and how could he not, Myka wonders – he does not let it on. Sam straightens, establishing contact with the audience, and moves into position for his first aria.

He sings beautifully and Myka keeps her eyes on him with firm determination, even as she is acutely aware of Helena’s presence, of the way she shifts shifts ever so slightly in her seat, causing a whisper of fabric in the silent pause between two songs. Myka looks at Sam, and maintains that he cuts a dashing figure in his tux, but there are Helena’s hands at the periphery of her vision as they applaud, one hand restricted by the bandage, and Myka looks at those hands and remembers the morning rehearsal and those hands on her hips.

She will run out of curses at this speed.

Myka glances down at the fine dusting of white on the tips of her shoes. Sam has given her the ticket and she is here for him, she reminds herself. Helena is difficult and moody and driven, and being attracted to her is a bad idea on every level. Even after more than a month of working with her, Myka does not know how to read her.

She holds onto her purse a little tighter and reminds herself that she is a professional, both onstage and offstage, and this concert - Sam's concert - is no different.

In the intermission, she sneaks a glance at Helena’s ticket, but it actually spells out the seat next to hers and by the looks of it, it is a regular ticket, not some favor from the management. Helena makes small talk with patrons and admirers who approach her – _Cardiff Singer of the World_ is aired internationally, Myka reminds herself –, a radiant splash of turquoise among the courtyard crowd. Myka exchanges a few polite words with Sam’s agent, who inquires about Myka’s own audition. His agency will not be the only one with access to the final rehearsals and Myka has apparently been deemed interesting enough to warrant small talk beforehand.

Their heavy-set neighbor comes back to his seat early, and, halfway though the first set after the break, he shifts, crowding Helena, which in turn pushes Helena closer to Myka. For a moment, Myka cannot help but think that Helena has orchestrated this move, too.

Helena places her bandaged wrist on the armrest between them - there is really no space to do otherwise - and now she is so close that Myka can feel the warmth coming off her body.

She does not look at Helena. She keeps gazing at Sam with renewed effort, especially when Helena shifts another bit closer. Myka cannot see whether their neighbor is the cause of that, too, because looking at him would require looking in Helena’s direction, and she will not do that. She sees Helena’s wrist from the corner of her eye, though, resting motionlessly on the armrest, with her immobilized fingers curled downwards. It is how the bandage works, but it also places those fingers less than an inch from Myka’s knee, just above the spot where her dress ends.

And now Myka sits still. Very still. She fervently stares up at Sam, and she does not move when one fingertip, perhaps on accident, brushes against the hem of her dress. Myka does look at Sam, but she does not see him. She does not see anything. There is only the sudden thunder of her pulse, and the featherlight touch against her thigh.

A second fingertip joins the first as Helena’s flexes her shoulders. It’s casual enough that it could still be accidental, but when Myka shifts involuntarily, that ends up making the contact just a bit firmer.

Helena is looking at the stage attentively, eyes straight ahead, and for all Myka knows, she is doing this on purpose to amp up the stage tension between her and Sam, or to build a backstory to feed off for Ramiro and Arminda.

A third fingertip lands on the seam of Myka's dress, so gently that it is barely noticeable. But then its warmth moves, at a maddening pace, and Myka wants to scream as it drifts along the slight ridge of thread and fabric. She holds her breath and forgets to release it when the warmth, finally, comes to rest against skin.

She does not move away.

Sam's expression falters a little when he looks down into the first row again – this is not a concert hall, they are seated close to the stage and the lights spill over onto them – and Myka does not want any part in this game, but she does not want Helena to take her hand away, either.

Myka glances up at the stars and curses some more.

With the applause in the end, it is as if noting has happened. Helena’s hands are at a safe distance again, clapping politely, and Myka applauds louder when Sam is asked for an encore. Sam smiles and looks at Myka as he bows, and when he looks at Helena, he does not smile any longer.

They move to stand in the end, applause replaced by the crunch of gravel once more, and Myka lingers to congratulate Sam when he emerges from the artists’ rooms.

“I suppose it would be rude not to compliment a colleague on a solo show well done,” Helena says with a smile as she lines up with her, and with her heels, she is nearly as tall as Myka is, and Myka thinks that she should not take such immediate note of this.

She nods at the ticket that Helena still holds in her good hand.

“So how much did this stunt cost you, exactly?”

A demure dip of her head obscures Helena’s smile for a moment.

“Oh, it was worth it.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Quote:  
> Between this one and that one  
> I am entangled,  
> I don't know the solution to this,  
> I don't know what to do.
> 
> \- Ramiro's third (and final) aria is "Va pure ad'altri in braccio" (see e.g. Nikiteanu in Zurich: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oxBFv-sidgo, or Chappuis under Haim 2014: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XLNpGr3EQIQ, or Troyanos, which is older and slower and in German an audio only, but DARN does she nail the hurt affection: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M77t2Y9hxMc) - Arminda's second aria that is referenced as a companion piece is "Vorrei punirti, indegno" (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GvO5p5RFEKI).
> 
> \- a few impressions of Hôtel Maynier d'Oppède: http://www.festival-aix.com/fr/node/49


	10. Chapter 10

_"Care pupille belle,_  
_volgete un sguardo a me,_  
_ah se voi siete quelle_  
_che delirar mi fate..."_

(Mozart, _La finta giardiniera_ )

 

Myka goes out to dinner with Sam, which is perfectly reasonable. They had made plans, and there is no reason to go back on them – not because of Pete clucking his tongue, giving his best sassy nurse impression when he catches sight of her in that little black dress again, and certainly not because she suddenly finds herself perpetually out of breath around Helena.

Being attracted to Sam is a lot more reasonable.

And it is a reasonably nice dinner they are sharing, in a very nice restaurant.

"I can call Linda and make sure she sits in on a rehearsal where you have your second aria," Sam offers. "Or your first. They're both strong, and you don't have Helena taking up the stage."

"That's fine," Myka says with more ease than she feels. "Linda wants to see me onstage, but she wants a few excerpts one-on-one, as well."

"It still wouldn't hurt to have the stage for yourself," Sam insists. "Helena is not very collegial that way."

"She is a good actress," Myka feels the need to protest, although Helena might not be an actress as much as someone running on high stage energy, period.

"She will be busy showing off for herself during the final rehearsals," Sam warns. "Someone from Frederic & Frederic is coming over because of her."

"Frederic & Frederic?!"

That is not just any management, that is the top of the business, handling singers like Anja Harteros or Felicity Lott. Myka blinks. "Wait, how do you know that?"

Sam shrugs. "I heard them call to confirm when I was at Artistic Management last week. We are almost at final rehearsals. Helena is catering to her contacts. Or what do you think she was doing at my recital?"

"She enjoyed your recital."

"I'm sure she did," Sam mutters darkly.

"You came across great," Myka tells him.

"Well… - Oh! Harold sent over two reviews that only appeared in print -" Sam digs out his cell phone because of course he has those two saved away, too. Myka already knows that he has an entire Evernote folder of clippings and she has to admit that he has garnered quite a bit of deserved praise for his concert.

"...with a flexible, youthful tone and beguiling charm…" Sam reads, and Myka laughs.

"Did they actually write _beguiling_?"

"It's a perfectly good review word," Sam says.

"Perhaps they write for Scrabble points," Myka suggests and Sam laughs along with her. Myka feels victorious. They are at ease, flirting gently, and it is a perfectly nice date.

"I'll have to rethink 'youthful'," Sam says.

"We are in the junior production," Myka points out.

"But we don't want junior contracts after all this exposure." Sam purses his lips. "I think I need new headshots. Something projecting more seniority."

Myka does not know what to say to this, so she smiles. Sam has organized the restaurant reservation and is taking her out, so the least she can do is make an effort.

"I could put in a word for you with my photographer, by the way," Sam says. "He cuts me a special deal, but I am sure I could organize the same for you, if I ask him."

"I don't even know yet where I'll be next season," Myka says.

Sam is undeterred. "He travels. And perhaps..." His confidence falters for a second. "I thought perhaps you might visit me, at some point?"

Sam has a half-season contract in Belgium lined up, one of the smaller houses.

"I might be in Darmstadt in the fall," Myka admits, not quite sure what she is offering, but Sam's smile at that is unguarded. He truly is handsome, Myka reminds herself, and she agrees readily when, after dinner, he suggests a stroll back to the guesthouse.

His hand slips into hers seamlessly as they walk out into the street and Myka wills the tiny spark she feels to blossom into something brighter. She holds onto his hand more tightly for balance since her dress shortens her steps and her heels catch on the countless cobblestones.

"Well..." Sam looks at her expectantly when they arrive, his eyes wide and happy, and Myka feels guilty and frustrated enough at the absence of butterflies in her stomach that she leans in and kisses him first. But even though Sam kisses her back eagerly, hands at her waist beginning to wander, Myka's breath does not catch. She is horrified at herself when she catches herself going over a few phrasings she had looked at before dinner. She pulls away and tries to make it look smooth.

"I'm sorry. I... I should head in."

"Of course," Sam says, and he does not push her. “Good night, Myka.” He plays with a stray curl of her hair for a second and he smiles softly as if he knows that Myka will come to him eventually.

It irks Myka, just as Helena’s games do. It is too late to head out for a run, but instead of going to bed, she picks up her score and heads to the wing with the rehearsal rooms. It is late, but if she keeps it down, she can claim a piano, enjoy the quiet, and work on those phrasings in earnest.

It is not as quiet as she hopes, though, since there is the sound of a piano drifting down to her when she climbs the stairs. Gentle scales, G major, voices. Light falls from a door left half open. Whoever is in there does expect company up here at this hour as little as Myka had.

The pianist misses a chord, there’s a soft curse, then the accompaniment switches to a marked rhythm and it takes Myka barely more than the intake of breath to place the voice that sets in.

_“The enemy shouteth…”_

It is Helena, much more in her element now than with gentle scales.

 _“The enemy shouteth,”_ a second voice echoes and Myka wants to leave. She creeps closer, careful to remain out of sight, and from here she can see the lit reflection of the room against the night-tinted windows.

_“The godless come fast!”_

Helena stands next to the piano and Abigail echoes, _“The godless come fast!”_ from her position at the bench as she steps in for the entire four-voice choir between her hands and voice.

_“Iniquity, hatred upon me they cast!”_

It has got to be around midnight, and Helena, hair haphazardly swept from her face and wrapped in something knitted that looks worn and soft, stands with one hand placed on the piano and dishes out her phrases with the fervor of verismo opera.

_“The wicked oppress me –”_

Her consonants are sharp, taking up too much space between the vowels. The voice cannot fully open and it comes across uneven as a result.

“Ah, bloody hell –” Helena curses and reaches for a pencil and Abigail laughs softly. It makes Myka want to scowl. “I apologize. I am keeping you from your recital program, and I am botching this up to boot!”

“Please.” Abigail waves her off. “I can play the Chaminade in my sleep.” As if to prove her point, her hands switch into a dramatic show-off run that sounds very much 20th century without losing a beat. “And this here is keeping me sharp.” She is back in G Major in mere moments and prompts, _“The Wicked oppress me…”_

 _“Ah, where shall I fly?”_ Helena continues, and it is a long note that finally allows her voice to catch roundness and soar. _“Perplex’d and bewilder’d, O God, hear my cry!”_

Myka knows this piece, or pieces like it. It has to be Mendelssohn by the harmonics, one of his showpiece psalms for soprano, and she is comfortably certain she has sung it as a choir alto at some point.

“Are you really sure you want to sing this at a wedding?” Abigail does not stop playing. “I just hope your friends have a sense of humor. – Are they two tragic actors?”

Helena just laughs in reply and touches Abigail’s shoulder. They actually work together, and perhaps that it is really all they have been doing these past few weeks, but there is an easy camaraderie between them that Myka still envies fiercely.

 _“O God, hear my cry!”_ Abigail takes over for the chorus, covering most of the parts. They toss the phrases back and forth, a bit more of recitative, Helena botches up a few more lines and curses, but delves ahead into yet more drama. _“With Horror overwhelm’d, Lord, hear me call!”_

Myka cannot make out their faces, but she sees Abigail shake her head at Helena. And then Helena stands still when the piano dies down to a whisper.

_“O for the wings, for the wings of a dove. Far away, far away I would rove…”_

It is a long, spun line interwoven with triplets and Myka stands rooted to the spot, by a piece and a style she would never have associated with Helena, whom she only gets to see in relation to Arminda because Helena never ever cuts that link. But this right here, this is a new side to Helena, bared in song, suppliant and hopeful.

Myka feels herself melt away and rise again as something she did know herself to be. She does not see more than Helena’s back, now bent forward to squint at the score over Abigail’s shoulder, yet she is absolutely mesmerized. Myka curses Mendelssohn and his surging build-ups, his triplets, and his damn effectiveness, and she curses Helena, everything about Helena. She curses her own inability to turn around and shrug off this pull that draws her to Helena with an intensity that should frighten her far more than it does.

_“In the wilderness build me a nest…”_

Myka tiptoes back to the stairs, away from the blurry sight of Abigail and Helena. One floating D sharp stops her short for a brief moment, and something within her clenches at the modulation, unsettling and anchoring her at once.

It is just a few more weeks, Myka tells herself. Barely a week until they open, and after that, she will only have to see Helena for the evening performances. And after that, she will not have to see her again at all.

Myka opens her laptop to see whether Tracy is online, by chance, but the icon is inactive. Myka’s fingers hover over the keys and she has typed in “Cardiff Singer of The World” before she can think better of it. She ends up on YouTube, where someone has meticulously uploaded most of Helena’s entries from the final rounds. And Myka cannot quite bring herself to stop, not until she makes it to the finals and Helena in Prussian blue raises an eyebrow into the camera on her screen, with her head held high against the nerves – Myka sees the tension in her hands, can pinpoint the moment where Helena realizes it, too, and makes an effort to relax them – and she briefly closes her eyes before she eases into Parry’s _O mistress mine._

It is an obscure song, but Rebecca has always liked the obscure, which is why Myka knows the title without looking it up. She is not sure whether she is grateful for it right then.

Helena’s voice is not cut out for song. It is constantly straining at the edges towards something bigger, but Helena has an uncanny knack for reeling the narration into the sound as she is beckoning her lover – the pronouns tease at Myka’s heartbeat – with nonchalant earnestness.

Myka must have watched the song, and the brief flutter of eyelids against cheek that precedes it, for the fifth time when there is a knock on her door. Myka’s first, absurd thought is Helena and she shoves her laptop away quick enough to have it topple over.

“Yes?”

She wipes at her eyes a moment too late.

“Hey Mykes.” Pete leans against the doorframe and peers past her into the room. “How was dinner? - I saw you come in, but then I caught Mr. Hunkentenor downstairs…”

Myka crosses her arms over her chest. “Is Amanda out?”

“No,” Pete says comfortably. “I told her I’d go check out the gossip for a moment. She really wants to know whether she has to put in an extra effort at rehearsal tomorrow. You know, in case you grew tired of his tenor face and knocked him out.”

Soft applause draws both their gazes to the bed, where Myka’s laptop has landed and Myka would curse the autoplay function if she still had any curses to spare.

Pete cants his head to the side until his sight is aligned with a miniature Helena in mossy green, who takes a breath and smiles at her audience.

When Pete looks at Myka again, his eyes are very gentle. “So… not the tenor, huh?”

Myka weakly shakes her head. “No. Not the tenor.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Operatic Cliff Notes:  
> \- Chapter Quote:  
> "Dear, beautiful eyes,  
> turn a glance my way.  
> Ah, if you are the ones  
> that are making me lose my mind..."  
> \- Obviously, I have no idea about the managements of either Anja Harteros (possibly the best lirico spinto out there at the moment) or Dame Felicity Lott (gracefully withdrawing these years, but a lyric legend), but I needed a point of reference.  
> \- "Hear My Prayer" / "Hör mein Bitten" is billed as a "hymn for soprano and choir" (also known as "Psalm 55") by Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy. It's so pretty that it's bordering on kitsch. Fine, it probably *is* kitsch, but it is so very effective. The original score is for organ but there is an orchestra version, too. It's pretty well known and standard church repertory fare, which means that there are A LOT of versions on YT (I'm not sold on any, but you could start here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4kDgUWqZ8cg - the segue into the hymn part with the triplets happens at the 5'15 minute mark). The score is on IMSLP, if you want to have a look: http://imslp.org/wiki/Hear_My_Prayer,_WoO_15_%28Mendelssohn,_Felix%29  
> \- Large parts of "Cardiff Singer of the World" (which, btw, Harteros won a few years ago) are covered and aired by the BBC, with much of it available on BBC Player afterwards, so the competition does come with quite a bit of exposure.  
> \- Hubert Parry's "O mistress mine" (mind the Shakespeare lyrics!) is probably one of the most obscure songs, period, and virtually no one knows Parry, but it's a very nice song setting and I imagine this Helena would pull it off perfectly, all subtle and confident (just mentally replace the young tenor here with something smooth and seductive: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kYjxkrb9ESs). The score is on IMSLP (English Song Lyrics, 2nd Set, No. 1: http://imslp.org/wiki/English_Lyrics_%28Parry,_Charles_Hubert_Hastings%29)


	11. Chapter 11

_“se tu sapessi..._  
_(son fuor di me) che smania,_  
_che tumulto ho nel core,_  
_né so se sia speranza, oppur timore.”_

[Mozart, _La finta giardiniera_ ]

 

Wardrobe and Make-up take nearly an hour to straighten out Myka’s hair and settle on a sleek ponytail for her Ramiro.

“It’s not very 1920s.” The make-up artist complains while he works to bring out Myka’s cheekbones and harden her jawline. “But Nielsen didn’t want wigs, so…”

“Mhm,” Myka says, careful not to move her lips. Whatever Artie’s motivation – it’s “Artie” now, after Claudia dragged them all out to a pub after a disastrous run-through of the Second Act and made them collectively drown their sorrows – Myka is grateful that she will not have to worry about wearing a wig. None of the cast is fitted with one because apparently in junior productions, one can get away with it.

“Since most singers still have full heads of hair at our age,” Kelly had quipped, who sits in the chair next to Myka and barely needs any cover-up. It is the first time they are in make-up and costume, for the main piano rehearsal, which already takes place out at the Domaine. This means that the directing rehearsals are officially over, unless Artie turns out to be one of those directors who frantically keep redoing scenes throughout the final orchestra rehearsals.

Myka glances at herself in the mirror, at Ramiro taking shape with a darker tint down her temples, and she sinks another bit into his skin.

“Less beard, more eyebrows!” is Artie’s only comment when he sticks his head into the room for a moment and Myka deflates again.

“He’s one to talk about eyebrows,” Kelly says.

“Why do you look so different?”

A startled Helena cuts to the chase when she walks in, riding costume already fitted to her frame.

“I’m in make-up?” Myka ventures with mock patience.

“No, your hair…” Helena rounds the chair, looks at Myka. “This is different. This changes things!”

Myka’s accented eyebrows rise upwards. “You will berate me differently because I have straightened my hair?” She has done so for many concert appearances, and Helena’s overt disapproval puts another damper on her mood.

“It makes you a different type…” Helena runs a hand through her own hair in frustration. “The curls were much more Byronic!”

“Never mind Byron. _I_ would go out with your Ramiro,” Kelly reassures Myka and winks at her through the mirror.

“He’s still _my_ ex-fiancé,” Helena says haughtily and Myka does not want to revel in that small display of possessiveness.

Instead she says, “Oh, so we were engaged now?” as blasé as she can manage, and she is not sure whether she feels complimented at the Byron reference or whether she wants to roll her eyes along with Kelly when Helena sinks into the last vacant chair. At least they are set up within the old countryside palace, where thick walls keep the heat at bay. The prop department has not gotten so lucky and is residing in mobile containers on the other side, vocally unhappy about it.

“At some point, statistically, a wild boar _will_ come out of that thicket,” Bennet argues as they walk out onto the stage and blink against the sun.

Myka moves out of the way to let two technicians with a floodlight pass. “At this hour, every boar is asleep in the shade.”

Amanda grins at her and she looks perfectly lovely, clad in shades of pastel and with her hair curled softly. “Besides, any boar walking up here would roast himself.”

“We will perform at dusk,” Bennet reminds her, and he still eyes the edge of the wood with distrust.

It is hard to imagine a mild evening now, in between the glistening light and the heat baking the castle walls. Myka has sweat running down her back before she even finishes her first aria, struggling with a stiff shirt collar that is still unfamiliar. She is relieved that they do not yet have to squint at Hugo in addition.

When they do, the next morning, and when even the perpetually relaxed Hugo Miller asks for a sunshade in clipped tones, nobody moves more than absolutely necessary. With the exception of Artie, who wears cracks into the side stage and complains about them having forgotten everything – “Hugo is not a snake! You do not have to stare at him like a paralyzed troupe of rabbits, and if you do, don’t do it _in the front_!” – and with the exception of Helena, who drives Arte crazy with trying out small details that are not written down in the directing score.

“We didn’t agree on that!”

“But it might work better, here,” Helena readily disagrees as she allows herself to react to the sounds and the scenery around her.

Myka envies this ease of connection. In her theory classes she once heard how the Greek, unlike the Romans, built their theatres into nature, to have the stage and the action blend into it, and Helena reminds her of that.

Helena reminds her of many things, or perhaps it is that everything reminds her of Helena now.

She stays on the side stage to listen to Helena’s entrance aria, with Helena a silhouette against an impossibly bright sky.

_“So easily do lovers promise things these days,_

_and the poor, hapless girl believes it_

_and is trusting enough to say yes…_

_But I don’t.”_

Myka squints. She cannot make out Helena’s face, but she sees the tilt of her head, the set of her shoulders, and it has been weeks of work between that first take where Helena had breezed onto the scene with cool disdain, and this display now, with pride and insecurity intermingling. This Arminda is younger, more hopeful, and Sam – in pastels that match Amanda – stands to the side like the perfect Prince Charming.

 _“Clear and done deals before I tell you yes or no!”_ Helena tucks her hand into Sam’s arm and the way she gazes up at him makes him look even more dashing. _“You will be my one and only, my hope…”_

And Myka knows of whom she is jealous.

_“But if you ever betrayed me…”_

Perhaps Helena sees Myka standing there, next to Artie, or perhaps she simply cannot resist the chance to upstage Sam once more, because now her gloved hands move down his shirtfront, much as they will trail down Myka’s in the third act tonight. But Helena’s hands move lower, across Sam’s waistband and lower still, and Myka finds herself unable to tear her gaze away.

_“If I ever found you lacking... I’ll know to use my hands!”_

From where she is standing, Myka can hear Artie guffaw just as Helena’s fingers close and squeeze.

“Wells!! Not in the script!”

Artie covers his face with his hands for a moment and Myka is glad that he cannot see her right then. She does not know who looks more flushed, Sam onstage or she herself on the sidelines. Helena pushes Sam into a corner, once more perfectly aligned with Artie’s official vision, only to linger a moment longer. It is a really good idea, Myka has to admit. And she hates it.

Helena removes her hand far too slowly – it is the bandaged one – and Myka stares at those fingers and absently brushes a palm against her thigh. She wants to be the one to pull off that glove, the one to sit next to Helena again during a recital in the dark.

Abigail’s concert is tomorrow, on a night the musicians will have off because the light crew needs the stage, and Myka has given far too much thought to the question whether Helena has merely given her a ticket, or whether she will attend the concert, too – she should, as Abigail’s friend –, and if so, in what seat.

For now, she watches Helena turn once more towards Sam, everything about her posture proclaiming desire, and Myka tells herself firmly that Act Three is on Hugo’s schedule for tonight, so no matter how Sam is now sliding an arm around Helena’s waist, the day will end with Helena tucked against Myka’s side, nevermind her staged parting glance at Sam. It will be a few moments under the stars, just like at Hôtel Maynier d’Oppède. Unless Helena decides to try out a new ending to Arminda’s story, as well.

But Helena does not do that. With Ramiro, Helena sticks close to the script, from their choreographed grappling for the epée to the moment where Myka briefly straddles her and speaks of past promises. Myka finds, with a blend of regret and relief, that she never manages to relish those moments as much as she secretly wants to. They pass in a blur between the action and her breathing and keeping an eye on Hugo’s baton, and she will not linger beyond what the score dictates. She is not like that.

Pete looks at her expectantly when she gets back late – very late – from rehearsal critique.

“So, did Helena really get hands-on with Sam’s…”

“An original sassy nurse would come up with a witty descriptor, you know.”

“…most vocal chord?” Pete suggests. “His very low C?”

Myka groans. “How do you even know about –” She does not to finish the question. “Amanda.”

Pete shakes his head, takes a swig of his beer and pushes another one across the table at Myka. “Baptiste from the woodwinds, actually.” He grins. “Apparently, half the section was wincing in sympathy, while the other half wanted to sign up.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Myka mutters.

“Mhmm.” Pete raises his bottle again. “You may have to step up your game.”

“I don’t have any game, Pete.”

Myka is tired, and not up for Pete’s teasing or for second-guessing Helena’s motivations. Linda from the management agency will sit in on the pree-dress rehearsal, and Myka will focus on that. Aix means only a few more weeks, and Myka needs a perspective beyond that. She has no larger network in Europe yet, and a few scattered concert gigs are not enough to pay rent, no matter where.

“You could always bunk with me,” Pete offers.

Myka gives him a fond look. “Pete, _you_ are bunking with someone.”

“I have my own room,” Pete protests. He has a small contract as an extra in Nuremberg, with the Philharmony, and travels from there. “And the room has an extra couch, so...”

“And Amanda will be lounging on it for most of the season, won’t she?”

“Amanda – “

Pete falls silent.

To Myka, this French summer is warping into a sample of French import cinema, the kind she watched and never quite understood as a teenager, before she realized with chagrin that it was not supposed to be understood: a slew of unresolved situations. There is one, however, that she can clear up when Sam slides an arm around her shoulders during orchestra rehearsal the next morning.

“How about we go out again after we open, just and me? To celebrate?” They are on the side stage, while on the scene, Hugo works with Helena and Kelly on a recitative transition. Sam tugs Myka closer in a way that feels like a display, and it is lined with impatience. “I can get us reservations again…”

“I’m sorry,” Myka says. “I don’t think I should. I mean, I like you, but – I simply have a lot on my mind right now.”

Sam takes his arm away, stands next to her and nods. “Yes, I get that,” he says easily. “It is your first big production, after all.”

Myka wants to bristle at that, but takes her cue from there instead. “Yes, and to now add a summer fling to that…”

Sam looks at her with a smile that does not quite manage to cover the dashed hope in his expression. “I wasn’t just looking for a summer fling.”

“Oh… I…” Myka is mortified at his quiet admission. “I am sorry. I honestly didn’t think that far ahead. You are much more –”

Helena swoops in at this very moment.

“More dinner plans?”

She looks more at Sam than at Myka, as if she is contemplating whether she approves of his head remaining attached to his shoulders.

Myka rolls her eyes. “Not tonight. I have a concert ticket, remember?”

“Of course.” Helena smiles. “I think I can make it, too.” Her gaze touches upon Sam again, fleetingly, and Sam steps away.

Myka finds herself protective of him. “You’re obnoxious.”

Helena shrugs. “You aren’t missing out on much.” She adjusts the glove above her bandage, moving her fingers suggestively.

“And you’re five years old,” Myka adds. “And gross.”

“Never mind his knob,” Helena scoffs and mockingly imitates Sam’s voice. “Come to my recital, Myka! Clap for me, Myka! Make me look suave! Read my reviews! – Did it ever occur to him to read yours for a change?”

Myka glares at Helena. “Did you eavesdrop?!”

“With how he broadcasts? – Watching him shove his mobile at you puts some people off their breakfasts, you know.” Helena shakes her head. “The last time _I_ dated a tenor, at least he didn’t speak English and I didn’t speak Russian.”

“Right, what could possibly go wrong then?” Myka says dryly.

Helena shrugs again, her expression frank. “Our egos didn’t quite fit into the same room after a while.”

“You don’t say.”

Claudia walks up to them with a few urgent notes at this point. Others follow later, while the entire cast huddles in the shrinking shadows inside the palace patio and Artie reminds them of each and every staging detail they have forgotten while they were trying to adjust to Hugo’s pacing.

On the drive back into town, Myka keeps her head in her score and ignores everyone around her. She spends the entire afternoon in the practice rooms over the arias for her audition and refuses to think about Helena and some faceless Russian tenor. Perhaps she takes a little more care than necessary in getting ready for the evening. Her hair is curled once more, even though Make-Up will straighten it out again just as meticulously. She wears her little black dress and feels out of place as soon as she steps inside the small concert venue. The crowd is informal in a way that differs from Hôtel Maynier d’Oppède. Here, it is fewer festival tourists and more hip art connoisseurs who have dressed down elaborately.

The chairs are worn, set up in untidy rows, and the floor is scuffed. When Myka looks up, she sees aged wooden beams crossing the length of the room. The only thing looking new is the grand piano, polished to a gleam.

The whole scene seems a set-up for a high-brow architecture spread. The seats are not numbered, either, and Myka tries to ignore the pang of disappointment at realizing that she will not be sitting next to Helena. It is for the better, she sternly tells herself and looks for an unobtrusive seat somewhere in the middle.

“Myka! Over here!”

Helena waves at her – from the front row, of course –, early for once, and she has her other, injured hand slung across the back of the chair next to her, keeping it free. Myka walks forward and does care shockingly little about what would be for the better.

Helena is dressed to match the photo shoot that could occur at any moment, wide pants over scuffed boot tips, a white dress shirt with the cuffs and collar unbuttoned, and what looks like an untied bowtie slung underneath.

Myka misses a step.

“Myka. Good evening.” Helena removes her hand from the chair. “I reserved you a seat and fought off any contenders to it.”

Myka bathes in the warm smile directed at her. This is the most removed from Arminda she has seen Helena; gone are the territorial flirtation and the challenging undertones. Perhaps Helena away from the circuit would be like this, perhaps she will be, in a couple of years, when she gives interviews during the festival season. Myka has little doubt about that happening as she sits down next to this Helena, who is cordial and relaxed and who might joke about how she once dated some tenor whom she could not even talk to.

This is perhaps how Helena and Abigail relate to each other, with an ease born of professional respect, without any tumultuous yearning underneath. And Myka wants this, but she does not stop yearning. She wants Helena’s obnoxious remarks, too, and Helena’s fingers on her thighs and every stubborn “This does not work”.

Abigail walks out in a sleeveless red sheath and Myka hears a few cameras go off before the welcome applause swells up. The Heritage Concert Series is no stiff affair. There is not even a program book, but an emcee in very fashionable dark eye frames, who gives an introduction to every piece. Now and then a chair creaks, and when Myka throws a startled glance back over her shoulder, she sees someone leaning forward, elbows on their knees, and to the right, she can make out a couple of thirty-somethings with perfectly groomed beards who are sitting with their arms around each other and hold hands.

Most of the music, Myka has never even heard of – a _réverie_ by Augusta Holmès, another by Germaine Tailleferre. Abigail plays without sheet music, without need for anyone to turn pages. It is just her and the grand piano on the makeshift stage. She does not move around much, yet Myka momentarily finds herself distracted by the shift of muscle along her upper arms while she plays, and when she catches Helena admiring the same sight, she is ridiculously jealous.

She shifts in her chair, which promptly catches on the uneven floor and ends up with a tilt Myka has to balance. Helena glances at her, a smile playing at the corners of her eyes. The emcee announces an _Air russe_ , and Myka’s chair tilts again and squeaks just as the piano quietly sets in. Without looking at her, Helena reaches over and places her hand in between their seats like a wedge, holding Myka’s chair steady.

Myka stares at Helena’s hand for a moment. She does not dare to put her own on top of it.

The music pulses forward under Abigail’s fingers, yet hers are not the fingers Myka is most aware of. She could cry right then, between the pulse of the music and Helena close enough to sense the minuscule shift of her shoulders as she breathes. Helena does not take her hand away, which leaves her angled toward Myka, and Myka does not dare to move at all even as she strains against her own skin to push beyond its barriers and closer to Helena.

It is Helena who moves, who lifts her hands to clap, but when the applause dies down, her elbow falls to the backrest of Myka’s chair.

“Sorry,” she whispers, while the emcee talks about the piano works of Cécile Chaminade. She does not remove her arm, and now she is sitting even closer than before.

Out of nowhere, Abigail draws impatient leaps and wild arcs from the keys, echoing Myka’s turmoil. The sound then switches to something solemn, of fervor and vows in pews, and at first Myka only notices the shift in warmth when Helena slowly extends her arm, allowing it to rest along Myka’s back in a touch light as a feather.

At this distance, Myka can glimpse the expanse of skin framed by Helena’s open shirt buttons, can make out the small herringbone pattern of the bowtie under the collar, and she knows that this moment will stay with her for as long as she lives.

Helena does not remove her arm for the length of the entire sonata and with every breath Myka takes, she can feel the warmth against her back grow more solid. Two fingertips brush against her neck, perhaps on purpose. Once, twice, and Myka is not aware of anything else. And among rising and rising chords, a breathless Myka vows to try and kiss Helena goodnight later, if they walk home together.

But as soon as the music fades away and the final applause sets in, Myka’s resolve crumbles. However contrived, Helena has merely kept her chair from tilting. Myka does not even know if –

“Helena!” Abigail waves at them across the hall with a large bouquet of flowers in her hand. “Myka!” She is surrounded by a group of concertgoers.

“Congratulations,” Myka tells her.

Abigail beams at her. “Thank you for coming out tonight!”

“It was wonderful,” Helena says. “Your Chaminade in particular. Hypnotic!”

“It was fantastic,” Myka agrees. It nearly made me kiss Helena, she does not say.

“We’re heading out for a drink. You’ll be joining us, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Helena says, and Myka wants to decline, but she does not want the evening to end. It is still early, she tells herself, and she ends up nursing a water and enjoying the evening, although she is careful with how much and how loudly she speaks among the small crowd. Helena laughs across the table, a hand in her hair as she pushes it back and the cuff of her shirt rides up with the gesture, and it is another moment Myka wants to keep with her. She looks at Abigail and hopes that she herself will be as relieved and nearly satisfied – “But the accented runs in the Farrenc!” Abigail says with a grimace – come tomorrow night.

“You audition tomorrow?” Abigail blinks when Myka finally excuses herself. “I didn’t know!”

Hardly anyone knows, because Myka is nervous enough as it is.

Helena is caught in conversation with the emcee right then and Myka puts a hand on her shoulder in passing, bends down to tell her “I’m heading back in” among the noise in the bar. Helena turns her head and laces her fingers through Myka’s for a moment.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Good night.”

Myka walks back to the guesthouse on her own. She is acutely aware that she is alone, but at the same time, she is overflowing with emotions, a kaleidoscope throwing wild whorls onto the sky that suddenly make perfect sense. She wants to cry, and yet she thinks she may never have been as happy at the same time.

This is crazy, and it is good that it will be over soon, but as she looks up into the pale stars above the city, she also wants it to never end at all.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Operatic Cliff Notes:  
> \- Chapter quote:  
> "If you knew...  
> (I am out of my mind) the longing,  
> the uproar I have in my heart!  
> I don't know whether it is hope, or fear."  
> \- Some words on final rehearsals in opera: I've had trouble with finding rehearsal terminology, so you're very welcome to suggest better terms here. I've found "dress rehearsal" for both the final (Generalprobe) and the penultimate (Hauptprobe) rehearsal, and no term at all for "Klavierhauptprobe", which is the first complete run-through, on stage, and also the final rehearsal with piano solo, with the whole staging already done and a first go with the original costumes and make-up, though still with rehearsal lights and rehearsal sets.  
> After this KHP, there are usually a few days of the technical staff setting up the original set, interspersed with light design rehearsals that are staffed by extras and not by the singers themselves to mark positions. Then there is a group of final orchestra rehearsals (Orchesterhauptprobe), usually numbered. I've generally seen 4-5, but if you're out of luck or not an important conductor, you may get only two or three. Those are the rehearsals for the conductor, where they call the shots and can decide to stop or repeat (or scream at everyone and run out in a fit), and they're about coordinating orchestra, singers and action. Hence they're in rehearsal light, rehearsal costume and without make-up.  
> The stage director's work is mostly done at this point, they usually just sit in and take notes to later review with the cast after hours. In the first of these main orchestra rehearsals, with all the singers suddenly focused on the conductor, a good portion of the staging tends to disappear (hopefully, just temporarily). It's also where conductor and director may clash over unresolved scenic or musical choices.  
> When these orchestra rehearsals are done, there are two more rehearsals (run-throughs), the penultimate and the dress rehearsal, with the full works: Stage, orchestra, original sets, original lights, wardrobe and make-up. In between dress rehearsal and opening night, there's often a night off in opera, as a concession to the voices.  
> \- The aria Helena is singing during the orchestra rehearsal would be "Si promette facilmette" (1st Act): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQ5jyOiD0PI  
> \- Abigail's recital features French women composers from around 1900 - Farrenc being a little early to the party and and Farrenc a little late, but it's not my area of expertise. The Augusta Holmès is so obscure that it is not even on YT (the Tailleferre is: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yBFV_yLT2Hw). Farrenc's Air Russe with the pulse is this one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ufdu-yPmDN8. And then there is the piano sonata No. 1 by Cécile CHaminade, which clearly is climbing up to *somewhere* and perhaps nicely illustrates Myka's emotional landscape at this moment: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tg3Sa7oppis; score on IMSLP: http://imslp.org/wiki/Piano_Sonata,_Op.21_%28Chaminade,_C%C3%A9cile%29)  
> \- This chapter has been improved substantially through the keen eye of The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke. Also, thank you to nondramafly and yvonne for the test drive.


	12. Chapter 12

 

 _“Potrò dunque sperare?” -_  
_“Sì, sì, sperate pur, che non v'è male.” -_  
_“Ah questa indifferenza mi farà disperar!“_

(Mozart, _La finta giardiniera_ )

 

 

The last orchestra stage rehearsal comes and goes without much resplendence.

“The morning of the pre-dress rehearsal, this is insane,” Bennet complains, and Kelly says, “Junior production, remember?”

“And out here to boot.” Bennet kicks at a stray pebble. “I hope at least the buffet’s good later.”

Amanda snickers. “Who knows, there might be boar on the menu.”

“Sounds like a perfect menu for your boyfriend,” Bennet says thinly.

“He’s not my –“ Amanda stops, then she shakes her head. “You know what? Pete would love it, and so would I.”

Most of the singers and orchestra will stay out here for the day and the subsequent rehearsal in the evening, catering included. It is cheaper than driving everyone back and forth. Myka will have to hitch a ride with some of the crew, though, because she needs to be downtown, with her music at the ready, by three p.m. sharp.

“We’re lucky we get the stage this much,” Todd says. “It’s performance conditions!”

“We’re not doing _The Fake Gardener At High Noon_ ,” Bennet sulks. “I can barely see Hugo!”

“Better through sunlight than through pouring rain,” Myka points out. She is on edge today, at odds with a lackluster rehearsal that has Hugo frazzled. Twice he has called her out already for missing a phrasing they had agreed on.

Claudia had shot her a surprised look.

“I’ve got an audition later,” Myka mumbled, duly chastised.

“I still need you here one hundred percent!”

Even Claudia is tense, so close to opening night, and it echoes through most of the cast this morning.

Helena may be hung over. Myka is not sure what to make of the way she slumped into her bus seat with a monosyllabic “’rning” and her sunglasses in place. She would ask Abigail how the rest of the party turned out, but Abigail enjoys the morning off, now that they have the orchestra.

Hugo is putting them through all the finali – Artie still grumbles about the second one – and through some of the trickier arias and duets. At least there are no action-heavy recitative scenes on the schedule, something which Myka is grateful for both because of the temperatures and because she does not want to argue with Helena today. Even Helena lacks her usual fighting spirit, though, and sticks to Artie’s directions.

It is Sam and Amanda who shine in their big duet scene. He and Myka have only exchanged a brief “hello” in the morning, before he took a seat next Amanda for the ride out here, and Myka feels guilty.

She still does when she gets into the crew car later, as everyone else sits down for a picnic lunch, and tries to focus on her audition.

“Myka Bering,” Linda says. Her hand is cool when Myka shakes it and she is kind in a very professional way. It does not help Myka’s nerves. Myka starts with a Cherubino aria, and she knows she is off. Linda looks reserved.

“Well. What else do you have?”

With her heart sinking, Myka gets out Rossini’s _Sigismondo_ , a bold choice because it is completely obscure. She gets into this piece a lot easier, something that cannot be said for the pianist Linda brought. Myka knows the aria well enough to work around that, her breathing paced better now, and she gets to show off perfectly tempered runs in the end.

“Well,” Linda says again, but it sounds different now.

She nods at Myka to continue, so Myka sings some Handel to show her Early Music range, but Linda calls out “Thank you” after the A part. And when Myka wants to round it out with a twentieth century song, Linda shakes her head.

“Can you do Romeo?”

More belcanto, then.

The pianist shuffles through his music and hands Myka a copy of “Se Romeo t’uccise un figlio”, which he clearly knows better than Myka does, but Myka squares her shoulders and soldiers through it with gusto. It is one if those pieces she has always been aware of, a standard for her voice type, even without having sung it anywhere in particular. And while she knows that she still needs to grow into it more, to match its refinement, she can already feel the perfect fit it will make when she allows her voice to take fuel from the lines in the stretta.

Linda does not interrupt, and then Myka stands silent, looking at Linda with bated breath.

“Well.” Linda nods and extends her hand again. “I cannot say anything definite until after I have seen the rehearsal tonight, but I think you may be a strong addition to our line-up.” She smiles when Myka shakes her hand, and it is the first time it seems genuine. “I really liked your Rossini.”

Myka watches the pianist shuffle out into the hallway behind Linda and wills herself not to break into a wide grin until the door has closed. She feels as if she could walk right through the closed door, and on air, and possibly fly. She is bursting with excitement, and she wishes for someone with whom to share the good news. Her colleagues are still out at Domaine de Grand Saint Jean, though, and most of the guesthouse lies quiet. Pete has opened with the Tchaikovsky at the Théâtre de l'Archevêché last night and everyone involved in that production is either still lounging in bed or at the beach, so Myka dutifully stores away her scores and checks her messages.

She writes to Tracy, “I probably just got myself an agent!”, just to tell someone.

It only takes a minute for Tracy to call.

“How did you _probably_ get an agent?” She shakes her head at Myka, the movement blurry on the small screen. “For work or for fun? – What happened with the tenor?” Tracy holds up a finger and then two more. “And with Pete The Trombone, and with Miss Cardiff?” She cants her head to the side and listens after herself. “This is sounding very French all of a sudden.”

“An agent,” Myka repeats, too elated to care about the teasing. “From a big management agency. She still wants to hear me onstage tonight, but it looks really promising.”

“Congratulations on getting someone else to manage your agenda.” Tracy says. “Not that you’d need one.” Myka has always been the more meticulous of the two. Then she sobers. “That means you get to stay, right?”

Myka exhales, and the prospect of an actual future in Europe is slowly sinking in. “I guess so. For now.”

And because Tracy is Tracy, she adds, “…and with the tenor, huh?”

“Not really,” Myka admits. “I broke things off with him.”

“Miss Cardiff, then,” Tracy decides.

“What makes you say that?” Myka protests, although she knows that it will be pointless. They have grown up in close quarters and know each other uncomfortably well.

“I googled her,” Tracy says readily. “Very attractive. Stunning, even.”

“And difficult,” Myka says. “And she will flirt with everyone, if it does something for the staging.”

Tracy perks up. “So she does flirt with you!”

“No,” Myka says. “It’s her role flirting with my role, but she draws her role into everything.” Myka remembers last night, Helena reserving a seat for her, Helena’s tentative arm around her back, Helena bidding her an offhand goodnight. “I just… I don’t know what she’s getting at. It’s confusing. A mess.”

“You’re in _France_!” Tracy proclaims with glee. “Things are supposed to be messy!”

“I do not appreciate ‘messy’,”

Tracy disagrees, of course. “Just because you had that one crazy girlfriend –“

“I had others,” Myka tries to get in.

“That law student we only ever heard of doesn’t count,” Tracy says. “Or do you mean your mad undergrad crush on Adrianne Pieczonka?”

“Everyone crushed on Adrianne Pieczonka,” Myka says defensively. “The entire class did.”

“And now Miss Cardiff is crushing you.”

Tracy is having far too much fun at her expense, and Myka needs to head back out to the Domaine, to make this evening count. With two full rehearsals and her audition on the schedule today, she cannot risk putting any more strain on her voice, not when she has to be in her best shape tonight, but she still uses the half hour she has left in the practice rooms, surrounded by threads of sound while she goes over Hugo’s notes at the piano.

She barely avoids barreling into Pete and his trombone case on her way out.

“Whoo, slow down, tiger! - Did the audition put you that much off-kilter? How did it go?”

Myka nods and bites her lip to keep from smiling. “I think I’m in.” She says it quietly, afraid to jinx it. “If I convince her tonight at the rehearsal.” She looks at Pete. “I thought you had gone to the beach to sleep off your hangover!”

“I could tag along,” Pete says instead. “For moral support?”

“And to see Amanda?”

“I couldn’t find anyone for a duel all day long.” Pete sighs. “At least no one who’d make a worthy opponent. – I loved your opening night gift, though,” he hastens to add and snaps open his case. Nestled in with the mutes is a ridiculously disproportioned action doll, a woman with scant clothing and a sword and a handcrafted little paper shield.

“She’s fierce,” Pete says contentedly. “The whole section wants one! – Now if Costumes had gone _there_ with our Joan of Arc…” He eyes Myka with speculation. “Your type, actually?”

Myka punches his arm hard enough to make him yelp.

“Ow! – Fine. So where are things with Miss… - with Helena?”

“Nowhere,” Myka says, and it should not hurt this much.

“Was that piano concert a bust?”

“No. No, it was perfect.” It has got to be nerves about Linda’s presence tonight, about the opening night, but Myka finds herself close to tears. “God, I’m too old for this.” She blinks furiously. “This is embarrassing.”

“It’s not,” Pete says immediately. “And even if, I say it isn’t. And I say Cardiff really needs to clean up her act. Is she into you or not?”

“I have no idea,” Myka says. “Sometimes?”

Pete looks at her warily. “Will you punch me again if I say ‘Women!’?”

“Perhaps,” Myka concedes. “Also, she told me she used to date a tenor, so …”

“So did you,” Pete points out. He snaps his trombone case shut again. “I’ll come along and figure it out for you. – To the Brassmobile!”

It is good to have Pete along. He keeps Myka from fretting about Linda on the drive. He sits in on Make-Up, to the delight of their make-up artist. And to the delight of Amanda, who is pretending to roll her eyes at his antics, but is smiling more freely than she has all day. Pete trades barbs with Kelly, until Helena comes in – she has the last slot – and even though she keeps her tone light, there is a sudden undercurrent of challenge in the room.

“Pete. Trading careers?”

“Sure,” Pete says gamely. “I just can’t decide between make-up and singing. - What’s less hazardous, lots of eyeliner or lots of sopranos?”

“Just beware of sopranos with eyeliner,” Kelly says and hops out of her chair.

Myka smoothes a careful hand over her straightened-again hair and stands as well, suddenly anxious to get out of here. “Come on, I’m all set.”

Amanda joins them as they walk across the patio towards the side stage, their steps measured in shoes still unfamiliar that must not get dirty, and mindful of tight seams and freshly-pressed costumes. The rehearsal energy is gone, in all its driven unpredictability, and replaced by a different kind of tension that is punctuated by nervous humming and scarfs and water bottles. As of tonight, they will only share performance hours and be set back to their own bubbles and schedules beyond that. They will not work together any longer towards building something, day in and day out.

Opening night is approaching fast, with all its vanities and superstitions. A first audience is milling about, mostly insiders from the festival, a select few from the circuit like Linda, and some early family members like Todd’s parents, who have already arrived.

The day’s heat has let up, leaving the air balmy and rich. Myka looks at the green of the woods beyond the stage and the audience and catches sight of Pete looking at Amanda, likewise at peace in the face of beauty. But Amanda suddenly stops walking.

“Wait. Look!”

She points at a figure that is just moving along an empty row among the tribunes.

Kelly squints across the distance, at the back of a tall woman with a fall of grey-blond hair, and squeals. “Oh my God, is that Dame Vanessa?”

Pete rises on tiptoes next to them. “Who is she, Batwoman?”

“Vanessa Calder!” Amanda says, any snarky retorts forgotten. “That’s like Marilyn Horne walking in here, or Flicka herself…”

“The reigning primadonna of Covent Garden,” Myka supplies for Pete, who still looks from one to the other without comprehension.

“She’s been stepping down for rather a while,” Helena corrects from behind them, every hair in place and her austere posture mimicking the aggressive slant of her costume. “Only very select roles any longer, more small recitals and teaching…”

“Right, now that we have _you_ to take over Covent Garden,” Amanda says dryly, but Helena looks back at her without blinking.

Amanda groans. “Dear God.”

Myka is inclined to agree, but no matter how arrogant it is, it is entirely possible that Helena G. Wells will sing at Covent Garden someday.

“It can’t be her,” Amanda wonders, turning back to the figure who is now settling into a seat. “What would she be doing here?”

“Perhaps she saw the Tchaikovsky and still has a day to spare?” Kelly suggests. “Didn’t she have a student in that one?”

Myka is only half aware of the gossip.

One of the people moving along the seats at the other side of the stage is Linda, even though Myka cannot find her right now. Myka may not go on to Covent Garden, perhaps, but the next few hours will play an important part in where she will go in the next few years. She glances at Helena, who stands stubbornly to the side and who is not aware of the importance of this rehearsal for Myka. She is likely just as nervous about Frederic & Frederic watching her tomorrow, and the realization makes Myka relent.

From the cubicle of the stage manager, they can hear Claudia shout out a curse, then two members of the tech staff hurry past with a ladder. From somewhere above them, the high-pitched whirr of an HMI powering up cuts through the air. First strings of the orchestra warming up carry over from beyond the stage and Myka nods to herself. This is it.

Hands land on her shoulders and when she turns, it is to face Pete. “You’ll do great,” he promises and kisses her cheek before he wraps her in a tight hug. “Knock’em dead.”

Over his shoulder, Myka finds both Amanda’s and Helena’s eyes on her.

“I would tell you to knock’em dead, too,” Pete says to Amanda, still holding onto Myka. “But I don’t want to give you any further ideas.”

Now Amanda smirks, but she leans in to kiss his cheek. Helena turns to Myka.

“First the tenor, now the trombone?”

Myka shrugs. “What’s it to you?”

Helena looks on as Pete slides off the stage podium to high-five a few of his colleagues in the orchestra before he disappears among the audience. Then she glances at Amanda’s retreating form. “Or is this turning into a threesome with soprano?”

Myka blinks at the dig, understanding a moment too late that Helena is angling for a fight to feed off it for the show.

“You know,” Myka says and she looks after Amanda, too. “That’s not the worst idea I’ve heard today. I guess I’ll have to ask after curtains.”

She leaves Helena standing there, and of course Helena chooses today to be impossible about things. She changes positions in the first finale and gets in Myka’s face, resulting in a moment where Myka is unable to catch the small screen with Hugo’s beat and has to take her cue from Helena’s intake of breath instead. It works without a hitch, but Myka is still angry.

In the second act, Helena adopts a different dynamic entirely when Myka charges after her.

_“Don’t run away from me, you cruel, ungrateful woman. Stop!”_

_“What do you allow yourself?”_ Helena does stop, but she extends the pause, enough to have Abigail fit in two extra chords. _“What do you want from me? What do you hope to gain?”_

Myka wants to throw Helena against the wall as it is staged for the end of the scene, and she wants to do it right this instant. Helena cannot go around and shift details on a whim, no matter how seamless her performance.

They grapple a little more forcefully for the prop sword, and then Helena slides it right across Myka’s bound breasts in another unstaged move. She is pulling every stop to rile up Ramiro, or perhaps to rile up Myka, too, and Myka is as annoyed that it is working as annoyed by the changes.

_“Oh, don’t rub that hated rival in my face!”_

The wood of the set wall shakes when Myka pushes Helena against it and Helena looks up at her with glossy eyes. Myka glances past her at Hugo on the sidestage monitor, catches Abigail at the cembalo from the corner of her eye, and she feels in command of the moment, until Helena – Arminda – slides a foot along the inside of Myka’s ankle, pushing her legs apart just a bit. Myka bites the inside of her lip. She has no idea who is gazing up at her now, whether Helena or Arminda or a confusing blend of both of them. The movement is so small that Myka doubts that the audience even catches it, but Helena has always been more about what is in character than about what is directly visible, and this fits the moment perfectly.

It still makes Myka want to hit the wall with her other hand in addition.

And Helena is relentless as she stretches Arminda’s wings and forges all the rehearsed moments into a story that does not look studied, but that simply falls into place. She kisses Sam in a way that was not scripted, either, in a desperate attempt to keep him from Sandrina, and Myka can hear Claudia groan from the stage manager’s post just as a low whistle sounds down from the light bridges.

_"Arminda, darling, you should know –"_

Myka is not sure whether she is more nervous or more excited about what Helena might do with this next scene of theirs.

_"Shut your mouth, you liar!"_

There is so much fury in Helena’s eyes that Myka, for a moment, is afraid that Helena might actually strike her, but when she comes to _“I am burning with rage”_ , it is with clenched fists and trembling shoulders, a zigzag between ire and tears. It is precisely what could keep Ramiro enthralled and Myka is determined to be just as good. She delivers her most confident _“Dolce d’amor compagna”_ yet and there are approving murmurs among the audience.

“That aria was something!” is the first thing Pete says to her in the break. “It’s lacking trombones, though. – How could anyone write an opera without brass?”

“Mhm,” Myka agrees distractedly. She is trying to make out Linda among the crowd, but it is of no use. Dusk is turning shirts and jackets into muted specks of color against the seats and the courtyard.

Helena saunters past them still in her garden outfit from the second finale, eyes sparkling and not quite yet Helena again. “Lovely rendition of _Dolce d’amor_.” Her gaze trails up Myka’s body, across Myka’s hairdo, and only then she brushes past her, cloth against cloth. “A little on the straight side, though. A shame.”

Her heels resound on the floor when she walks away.

Pete clears his throat. “I think it’s safe to say that she _is_ flirting with you.”

Myka scoffs. “She’d flirt with a brick wall if it furthered her role portrayal.”

Pete stares after Helena and nods. “She probably could pull that off.”

“Not helping, Pete.”

Helena herself is not helping, either. Myka is alert at every moment, ready to react to any idea that might suddenly strike Helena, which in turn drives Helena even farther towards the next new detail. It would be exhilarating, if tonight did not carry quite so much weight for Myka. She finds herself out of breath when her third aria draws near because Helena and Bennet have turned the staged assault of him into a veritable jungle-gym performance, a push and pull that Myka has to meet or she will be bowled over.

The scene works well, drawing laughter even from the small crowd of insiders, but Myka’s lungs feel too tight when a battered Bennet finally crawls away. Helena smiles, assessing Myka where she is sprawled next to her. She is already hunting for the next moment of intensity and Myka looks in alarm at the scene ahead.

“Could you tone it down a little?! I’ve got an agent out there, I need to sound my best!”

“Then you should focus on the story,” Helena whispers back, as haughty as ever. When the laughter has already died down and she is moving into position, she keeps her back to the audience for a moment longer. “You do,” she adds quietly. “Sound your best. - _Ramiro, let’s be real.”_

She is back within the scene immediately, but she eases up a little in the minute before Myka’s aria. Their exchange is languid now, a little slower, which extends all the touches and also the moment where Helena is stretched out beneath Myka, her hand moving up Myka’s thigh.

In the end, the aria is not Myka’s strongest showing, but she is in control of it. The last minutes of the performance pass in a blur after that, now that she only has the short last finale to sing, with Helena leaning lightly into her arm. Out there, beyond Hugo, Linda will have come to a decision.

Only when Myka is back in the dressing rooms and catches sight of herself in the mirror, the nerves return and for a few seconds, she is convinced that she will throw up.

A knock on the door cuts through the haze and she sounds shaky when she calls out, “Yes?”

Linda steps into the room.

“Congratulations.”

Her expression is nothing if not sober and Myka’s heart is beating in her throat.

“A strong performance,” Linda allows. She pulls a big stack of paperwork from her briefcase and drops it onto Myka’s dressing table. “We would like to represent you, Myka Bering. And we will be happy if you sign with us.”

“Yes,” Myka manages. And, once more, “Yes.”

She shakes Linda’s hand and she is unable to stop smiling in relief, enough to make Linda smile in return.

Kelly breezes in at that moment, Helena on her heels.

“Secret girlfriend, Myka?”

Behind her, Helena’s eyes narrow.

“No,” Myka says quickly. “She... she’s my agent?”

“Yes, she is,” Linda says with amusement. She has business cards at the ready and introduces herself, a bit more intently when it comes to Helena.

“Contact the office with any questions about the contract,” Linda says, and she shakes Myka’s hand again when she leaves.

“So, your agent, huh?” Kelly grins.

“I’ve got an agent.” Myka is still in a daze.

“Whooo!” Kelly, despite her smaller size, picks Myka up around the middle and whirls her around. “That’s fantastic, girl!”

Helena gives a measured nod. “Congratulations.” Her smile looks a little forlorn.

“Now don’t be too enthusiastic, Wells,” Kelly reproaches her. “Just because you still have to run the gauntlet tomorrow…” She turns back to Myka. “Come on, this calls for drinks!”

“We’ve got the dress rehearsal tomorrow,” Myka reminds her, but Kelly waves her protest away.

“In the evening! Besides, you’ve got your contract!”

Myka looks at the papers on her table, reassured by the size of the manila envelope. She keeps it under her arm on their drive back to town. Claudia has informed Artie that rehearsal critique will take place in a bar again and he only puts up moderate protest. He seems lost in thought, much like Helena, while Myka is surrounded by well-wishes and congratulations. Sam accepts them right along with her, very content with the outcome of his recommendation.

“See? I told you to call her, I knew you had a chance at getting in!”

Pete tags along and tells brass jokes until Amanda elbows him hard enough to make him yelp.

“What? I am staying clear of soprano jokes!”

Amanda lifts a brow. “I am sure I know better soprano jokes than you do.”

Claudia groans. “Please don’t let them place a bet on it. We still have work to do.”

Todd looks at the folder in her hands, and at the post-its sticking out of the directing score.

“Just how many notes are there?”

“Enough,” Claudia grumbles as they file into the bar. “Although half of them are on Helena changing things.”

Helena rolls her eyes in mock annoyance. “You want me to change those back, or you want to jot them down?”

Claudia huffs. “Let me get my pencil.”

There is laughter, even as Artie begins to go over the directing notes, but Helena does not seem to be part of it tonight. She has sat down away from Myka and she keeps to herself, the rehearsal’s impulsive mood gone even as everyone around her is livening up.

“Fine,” even Artie allows, with all notes addressed and still on his first and only beer. “Perhaps you are a halfway bearable lot. But that does not mean you can slouch your way through the second finale!”

He excuses himself early, muttering something about work just as Kelly and Todd spring a round of drinks to celebrate Myka’s management contract.

“Will you be okay on your own?” Pete whispers when Amanda wants to leave shortly thereafter. He nods at Helena, who is moodily staring at her phone.

“You go ahead,” Myka says. Tonight, with the comforting weight of the contract in her bag, nothing can intrude on her mood.

Two more seats empty, then Bennet stands in search of the bathroom and leaves just one unoccupied chair between Myka and Helena, whose face is bare of make-up and oddly somber.

“That worked out rather nicely for you, didn’t it?”

Helena nods at the edge of envelope peeking out of Myka’s bag and there is an undertone to it that Myka cannot place.

“You sure kept it interesting.”

Myka is not feeling as magnanimous as she could be about the changes, and perhaps it is also about the empty chair between them that always seems to be there, unless they are on stage, or somewhere in the dark at a recital, where nothing comes with a clear meaning.

“I beg your pardon.” Helena is immediately defensive. “We were better than ever tonight!”

“You still could have given me a hands-up.”

“I didn’t know beforehand,” Helena says imperiously. “I follow the role!” When Myka glowers at her, she relents, if only a little. “And I didn’t know you were auditioning.” She takes another breath before she adds, “I am sorry.”

It does not sound as if she is sorry, however.

“Are you – “ Myka blinks and shakes her head. “Are you angry that I got an agent?!”

“No. Yes. No!” Helena sighs. “That contract has been long overdue.” She gestures at herself and grimaces. “Just a case of unappealing envy.”

“Of env –“ Myka does not know what to do about Helena any longer. “You are jealous? You do remember the part where Frederic & Frederic will be at Dress tomorrow? Because of you?”

“Of course I do, and so does everyone else!”

“You really are nervous,” Myka realizes.

“I bloody well am,” Helena bites out. “It is Frederic & Frederic!”

“They will…” Something else occurs to Myka. “Wait, did you just use tonight as a test run for tomorrow?”

“No!” Helena responds a little too quickly. “I have no idea what I will do tomorrow,” she admits.

“Let’s hope that it is something we actually staged,” Myka says coolly and she does not understand why she is so easily angered, not when tonight has gone so well in the end.

Helena pauses, but then she smirks. “I’ll do my best,” she promises and reaches out to tug at a loose strand of Myka’s straightened hair. “Madam Lawyer.”

Bennet returns before Myka can react and Helena moves away. She makes no attempt to say anything else to Myka, instead drawing Bennet into a conversation. Myka runs a finger over the contract papers and struggles to understand her own confusion. She turns back to Kelly and Todd and Claudia, but twice she catches Helena looking at her over Bennet’s shoulder, her gaze dark.

Myka tries to motion her over, but Helena dodges her glances and pulls out her phone again. It tastes like rejection and Myka finally gives up and takes her leave.

Back in the guesthouse, she finds Amanda and Pete lounging on the couch at the back of the common room, with the game console hooked up to the projector and a line of carry-out boxes around them. A score screen on pause is covering nearly an entire wall, and underneath its colored glow, Amanda sits with her feet across Pete’s lap. She wears a robe over a pair of sweatpants now and just as Myka enters, she shifts the controller into one hand to run the other through Pete’s already disheveled hair.

Myka is hit with the same fierce envy she has earlier begrudged Helena, but when she tries to tiptoe past the door, Pete catches sight of her face.

“Mykes? – What did she do now?”

Next to him, Amanda straightens and picks at her robe.

“Nothing,” Myka says glumly. She has no idea of gaming, but she wants to sit on that couch with Helena, bones tell-tale at ease and cheeks still flushed, a controller in one hand and the other winding through Helena’s hair.

“What’s going on?” Amanda asks and wiggles bare toes.

“Soprano drama,” Pete supplies.

“Dear God.” Amanda groans. “Sopranos!”

“You are a soprano,” Pete points out.

“But I wouldn’t date one!”

“Nobody is dating anyone,” Myka says and glares at Pete, who throws up his hands in defense.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“It didn’t take a genius to figure out,” Amanda says, and pauses. “No, actually it did take a genius.” She looks rather pleased with herself. “We share a dressing room, and you never, ever look at her. It makes sense now!” She eyes Myka with amusement. “Helena G. Wells. Well, you sure like to live dangerously.”

“Not a word,” Pete says to her before Myka can.

“Oh no.” Amanda lifts her hands, the controller dangling from her fingers. “I like to live a little less dangerously than that, thank you very much.” She slides deeper into the couch cushions and pokes Pete with a toe. “Pass me the chips, please.”

“You finished the dip already. Despite my protests.”

“Whining,” Amanda corrects him.

Myka looks at the two of them and yearns for carry-out and sweatpants and endearment veiled in barbs and the easy familiarity it implies. With Helena, she does not even know what will happen onstage during dress rehearsal tomorrow and it is little comfort that Helena apparently does not know yet, either.

 

  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Operatic Cliff Notes:  
> \- Chapter Quote:  
> "So I may hope?" -  
> "Yes, yes, hope anyway, there is nothing wring with that." -  
> "This indifference will drive me crazy!"  
> \- rehearsals: I have never worked at Aix, so the organizations and locations of the final rehearsals are all guessing work.  
> \- On Myka's audition pieces: The Cherubino aria (from Mozart's "Le Nozze di Figaro") could have been this one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yXA2Ua4wd0I (there are two); the virtually forgotten "Sigismondo" by Rossini has a showpiece called "Alma rea" (starts at 4.30 here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rqgw_ptFrOo), and Bellini's "Capuleti & Montecchi" is basically Romeo & Juliet with both roles written for female singers (don't you just love opera?) and the entrance scene "Se Romeo t'uccise un figlio" is well worth a look and listen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AxCIx8ffYX4.  
> \- Adrianne Pieczonka is a A-list Canadian soprano who specializes a repertory in the jugendlich-dramatische corner, particularly Strauss and Wagner. She was based in Munich for a few years and is now based in Toronto with her family. And while this fact has no bearing on her voice or the story, she is also openly queer. Also, some of her repertory requires lounging in bed with mezzo-sopranos (treat yourself to the first few minutes of this - starting at 3:30 if you are in a hurry: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kehw5jztLDs)  
> \- "The Maid of Orléans", a telling of the Joan of Arc myth, is a not-very-well-known opera by Tchaikovsky. Aix staged another of his lesser-known works, "Iolantha" in 2015.  
> \- The exact locations of dressing rooms etc. are fictional. There is a virtual tour of the site via the festival website (Grand Saint Jean, here: http://festival-aix.com/en/festival-daix/stages), and you can drive past the estate vith Google Street View, and get a feel for the layout with the bird's eye view (https://www.google.at/maps/place/Domaine+Du+Grand+Saint+Jean/@43.6031946,5.3695485,795m/data=!3m1!1e3!4m2!3m1!1s0x12c9f361a4be4455:0xcc2b9885a04929ed!6m1!1e1). The Domaine also has a small Wiki entry (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ch%C3%A2teau_du_Grand-Saint-Jean)  
> \- Covent Garden / ROH (Royal Opera Hosue) are designations for the major London opera house (it's one of the most ones internationally, too).  
> \- Marilyn Horne and Frederica von Stade, nicknamed "Flicka", are two important and much beloved U.S. mezzo-sopranos of the later 20th century (particularly 1970s and 1980s), who have both more or less finished their active careers and are now very involved in teaching and mentoring.  
> \- This chapter turned out to be really long, with too much packed into one, so I split it up in two as per beta's recommendations. Chapter 13 should be up soon, since it is only missing minor edits. Chapter 12 has been considerably improved by the betaing skills of The Duchess, and a once-over by Paula. Thank you!


	13. Chapter 13

_Dunque nell’atto istesso,_  
_In quell dolce momento, in cui ti trovo,_  
_Io perderti dovrò?_

(Mozart, _La finta giardiniera_ )

 

Tracy calls again the next afternoon to ask for details on Linda, clinging to a cup of morning coffee while Myka is getting ready to take the bus out to the Domaine.

“Your hair!” Tracy says instead. “Just like when you tried to look like an adult for prom.”

“Not you, too,” Myka grumbles and Tracy perks up.

“Who else thought you were primping for prom?”

“This is the director’s choice,” Myka corrects her. “And the costume designer’s. And nobody mentioned prom. You did.”

“But someone said something.” Tracy’s eyes are more alert across the rim of her coffee cup. “Oh, it was Miss Cardiff.”

“She doesn’t like it,” Myka says. “And I don’t even know why I talk to you.”

“Because I am your only sister.” Tracy takes another sip of coffee. “Which also makes me the only one entitled to nag you about your hair, or your crushes.”

Myka just sighs.

“I take it is going badly, then?”

“It is not going at all,” Myka says. “It’s tonight and then we open, and after that, we only have to see each other for the performances and we will be out of each other’s hair in a few weeks. Which is for the best. End of story.”

“You don’t give me much material to work with,” Tracy complains. “Either way, I actually wanted to wish you to… break a leg. Unless that’s bad luck, too, if it’s said two days early?”

“No, it isn’t.”

It is two more days, and despite knowing what would be for the best, Myka sits with her eyes on fields of burnt gold and green as the bus rattle past them, but with her awareness full of Helena who sits two rows in front of her, water bottle in hand, bent over her score.

She tries not to ignore Helena too obviously while they change, least of all when Amanda casts a knowing glance her way. Myka chats instead with the wardrobe assistant, Jeannine, who is helping her with the bindings for her breasts. She winces when Jeannine closes the last clasp and leaves the bandage cutting sharply into the skin above Myka’s ribs. It is only a minute, then the sensation fades, and the assistant slips the shirt over her head, adjusts the cuffs and Myka is shifting her stance when she catches sight of herself, Ramiro beginning to look at back at her.

She heads to Make-Up with Kelly, far more relaxed than yesterday, but the calm is gone in a heartbeat when they nearly collide with a tall, blond woman in the door.

“Oh, I apologize,” she says, as Myka and Kelly all but gape at her. “I didn’t mean to be a bother.” Up close, her hair is more grey than blond, and she is not actually that tall, but she easily commands the entire space around her.

“Dame Vanessa,” Myka says and hopes that she does not sound as starstruck as she feels.

“’Vanessa’ is fine,” Vanessa Calder replies with amusement. “Myka, isn’t it? A lovely rehearsal yesterday, particularly your second aria.” She smiles at Kelly. “I’m looking forward to hearing you again tonight.”

“Was that Dame Vanessa?” Amanda whispers, catching up to them as they stare after the singer.

“That’s Dame Vanessa all right,” Kelly says and blinks. “But what is she doing here?”

“There is that rumor about her and Hugo –“

But there is no more time to wonder about that as they get called into Make-Up. Claudia’s thirty-minute alert comes quick tonight and the buzz of a much bigger audience is filling the courtyard. Unlike Linda yesterday, the imposing figure of Irene Frederic stands out among the crowd, and next to her, Kelly points out Dame Vanessa.

“Fifteen minutes to curtain!”

Hugo makes a last stop backstage, the orchestra is beginning to settle in, and the evening is underway before Myka can fret about it. The first act flies by without any mishaps while the summer sky above them slowly thins in color. Dusk seems to lie in wait in the trees around the courtyard and Myka catches Helena’s profile against the waning light and aches.

Helena is radiant tonight, less aggressive than she had been yesterday and even though she has mentioned her nerves to Myka, they are not apparent at all. If anything, the entire show is coming together too smoothly for a dress rehearsal, but by the time break rolls around, even a haggard Claudia is smiling.

“That’s because the second act is still ahead,” Artie grumbles while he paces among them and effectively spoils the exuberant mood. “Remember the finale, don’t pile up in front again like a parade of headless chicken!”

A hand lands on his shoulder, and Dame Vanessa appears at his side. “In my day, the critique happened after the rehearsal,” she observes as she tucks her hand into his arm with a gesture that bespeaks a thousand other instances of this very movement. “For which you might perchance need to save some of your energy?”

Artie takes a breath, exhales, and softens under Vanessa’s gaze. “No chicken pile!” he stresses, but it does not sound half as upset any longer.

“They are an item?!” Amanda whispers next to Myka, eyes round.

Helena looks just as startled. “I did not know that.”

“And of course you would know all the gossip going around the Royal Opera,” Amanda says, and it is about more than Dame Vanessa. Sometimes, Myka forgets that Amanda is slated as the leading lady in this production.

Helena does not respond, but Myka can see how she squares her shoulders. Then something down the sidestage draws her attention and when Myka follows her gaze, she sees Sam standing in between prop tables as he struggles to talk to someone who is not Irene Frederic, but who has the same tilt of head and the same no-nonsense air about her, despite a much gentler demeanor.

“Leena Frederic,” Helena supplies. “The junior partner of Frederic & Frederic. Someone not to underestimate.”

Myka recognizes how Sam shifts, how he will now smile in his most convincing manner and try to explain something to Ms. Frederic.

“Oh please,” Helena mutters next to her. “As if they would ever take him on!”

“He is a good singer,” Myka feels obliged to point out.

“Not good enough.”

“All the better for you, isn’t it?” Myka snaps. “That way you can upstage him to your heart’s content!”

“That’s not what I… Myka, wait!“

Helena saying her name should not affect her like this. It slows her step, but Myka walks on and when she faces Helena again, it is to fight over a sword and broken promises in Mozartean lines that could have been part of their backstage exchange just now. It is far too easy to channel her private rancor into Ramiro, and she feels uneasy about that. She cannot blame Helena for not returning her affections, yet that is far too much at the core of Myka’s delivery. Helena’s abrasiveness, her arrogance, her aloof push-and-pull – she could begrudge her those, but they do not ring as much through the lines that they hurl at each other.

Myka tries to resist the pull as Arminda’s anger blends into Helena and back again, and even though it should have no bearing on the action, their final embrace comes out stilted. It has Myka mad at herself all through the post-rehearsal notes, which they receive sitting at the edge of the stage while the crew is cleaning up behind them. Helena is leaning back onto her hands and gazes up at the stars that are now dotting the countryside sky and Myka reaches for a pencil and turns away until Helena is only a silhouette at the very edge of her vision.

There are fewer notes today, which has Artie and Claudia equally nervous as they tick off the comments on their list. On Artie’s other side, in the first row of the now vacated seats, Dame Vanessa is a picture of casual calm, even as everyone’s eyes stray to her time and again.

“Most of you will be familiar with Dame Vanessa Calder,” Artie says eventually, gesturing at her with the same gentle ease that she displays around him. “She will not dissolve into thin air, so there is no need to gawk at her.”

But she is still Dame Vanessa, even if she is here “just for Artie, nothing else” and suggests going out for a drink with them. Myka catches her later, a beer in hand, going over two phrasings with a glowing Amanda regardless. She also speaks at length with Helena, who is the only one of them who has met Vanessa before, having taken a master class with her, but Helena seems, if unwillingly, just as much in awe of her as the rest of them.

Myka has not seen either of the Frederics approach Helena. She debates whether she should ask her about it, but in the end, the opportunity does not present itself. She does not see Helena the next day, either. It is an odd off day, a downward spike in energy between the dress rehearsal and opening night, and Myka keeps herself busy by strolling through town and looking for opening night gifts. She stumbles upon a shelf of little solar flowers that move their tiny plastic petals with the light, hideous and much too colorful and cheap. They are perfect.

Later, she sits down to study the paperwork of her contract in depth. She calls her parents, and she calls the law student she used to date – the one whose existence Tracy keeps doubting – with a few questions on the small print. She has the sensation of signing away her soul, not to mention a tremendous amount of royalties, when she finally places her signature on the dotted line and heads back out to the post office. She does not even mind when the post worker on duty asks her to repeat what stamp values she needs. She officially has an agent now.

Linda briefly calls her on opening day to arrange a meeting later in the run – “I need to sign someone in Drottningholm tomorrow and then I’m in L.A. at the Operalia semi-finals, but I’ll be back in Aix after that” – and Myka is still a little overwhelmed by the prospect of long-term plans and being suggested projects. Linda is already thinking about collecting review blurbs for Myka’s future entry on the agency website, while Myka is thinking about tonight and joins an early crew transport out to Domaine de Grand Saint Jean.

She takes a walk around the premises and enjoys the relative quiet, breathes in the air that is slightly cooler underneath the trees, and when she relaxes her jaw and hums a few notes, her voice responds perfectly. Linda should get a few reviews worth quoting out of this premiere.

Neither the make-up artists nor the costume assistants are on site yet when Myka slips into the dressing rooms to leave gifts and little notes. She is not the first one. When she walks into the women’s changing room, she finds a few little tokens already in her place, and when she returns from an impromptu coffee with Claudia – coffee for Claudia, Myka is sticking to water so close to the show – there are more: a little smurf with glasses and a law book, single roses, a candy sunflower.

Myka reads the well-wishes and, slowly, the nerves set in. Hummed triads carry over from the men’s dressing room. Out in the corridor, costume rack wheels squeak across floors uneven with age. Everything beyond these rooms is beginning to fall away.

Kelly is even giddier than usual. Both of them look on from the window while Amanda is being photographed for an interview down in the courtyard. Sam is on his phone, standing to the side, probably sending out a last tweet to the fanbase he is trying to groom. He and Myka wish each other toi-toi and spit across the appropriate shoulder, and it is a little awkward to touch him now.

“I’m including Leena Frederic in it, too,” he says, and pushes another button. “She’s lovely. And who knows…”

“Sure,” Myka says carefully.

“They took on Helena,” Sam adds. “Did you know? - And she had the nerve to negotiate over her contract! Back and forth, apparently. I heard it in the office this morning. I don’t know whether I would have signed her after that stunt.”

“I suppose they have their reasons.”

Sam frowns at that, and Myka knows that he dislikes Helena, but even he would have to admit that she is an exceptional stage singer.

Myka only sees Helena when she herself is already in costume and on her way to Make-Up. Helena walks in brimming with tense energy, her gaze detached from everything around her, a force collecting on itself to be unleashed once the footlights come to life.

“I didn’t even see you yesterday,” Myka says and she cannot help but smile at seeing her now. “Congratulations on Frederic & Frederic, I only just heard.”

Helena waves it off. “All that matters now is the show.” She allows herself a little smirk. “But it was rather lovely to see Sam turn three shades of white at the news.”

“You don’t have to be petty about it,” Myka mutters.

“Oh Ramiro, my lawyer. I forgot.” Helena sits down at her dressing table and reaches for a bottle of water. “It must have been one review clipping too many that put me off. – But didn’t you switch to trombones?” She screws the cap back onto the bottle.

“You forget about the soprano,” Myka says. “Didn’t you suggest a threesome?”

Helena looks amused, as if she knows very well that Myka will never follow through on that. "That's right. I lost count."

“Thirty minutes to curtain!”

Claudia’s voice crackles through the worn speaker in the make-up room.

Myka adjusts her shirt, her pants, moves her jaw and ignores Helena as she tries another scale under her breath. A copy of the _Code civil_ and a small bouquet of rosebuds poppies and lavender have appeared on her dressing table while she was out, but she is too nervous now to look at the cards attached.

“One more damn bouquet and I’ll be the next one with a hay fever attack,” Amanda curses next to her. She pushes at an elaborate arrangement. “This smells enough to give me a headache!”

“Fifteen minutes to curtain!”

Myka looks out of one of the windows at the trees beyond the bustling courtyard. For a moment of sharp nostalgia, she wishes her parents were here. She wishes for Pete and another of his obnoxious brass jokes, but Pete is playing _The Maid of Orleans_ at the Archevêché tonight.

Their own orchestra is moving into place, Myka can hear the pluck of a double bass, oboe runs, a trill in the flutes. The most startling sight of the night is Hugo in a crisp dress shirt and sharply ironed trousers, his hair in place for once.

“Five minutes!”

The last moments pass sidestage in a blur of whispers and clasped shoulders, fervent wishes of “Break a leg!”, and Claudia herding everyone into position. And then Hugo raises his baton.

A violin string rips before the overture is over, Todd needs the prompter for a small hang up, and there is a prop mix-up in the first finale that causes Claudia to curse under her breath loud enough for Myka to hear it onstage, but the first act still finds its pace. Bennet is more threatening than Myka has ever given him credit for, and Amanda, cast in gentle evening light, looks still more like the Goddess of Gardens than a gardener. The evening’s energy rises as a stream and Myka steps into it and is pulled along, moves it forward echoed by the dust particles and small insects that glitter in front of the footlights, by the contrasting scents of stage make-up and of costumes still new to strain and sweat.

All of them seem to move with more urgency tonight, straining to match the atmosphere. The exception is Helena, who now seems to relax into a space tuned to her at last, even while she treats every interaction with her colleagues like a duel. Myka does not know whether Helena changes things just for the sake of keeping her on her toes, or whether she truly does it by instinct, but she is enough of an artist to admit that it works out perfectly.

It is things so small that Claudia will not have to write a single note, but it forces Myka into new reactions, again and again. How her hand slides just a little more to the side against Myka’s bound chest, making her shoulder appear broader, or how she angles her torso when they struggle over the sword, pushing them closer together. It is a dance of sorts, with Helena pushing and Myka pushing back, skirting an unspoken edge of hurt and anger that seeps offstage as the act ends.

During the break, Helena stands apart from the excited chatter, and Myka only sees the rise and fall of her shoulders where she has turned her back and seems to sink into the falling night. Again she reminds Myka of some primal force, sucking all energy into herself and only releasing it once the music has started again.

The minutes rush by, arias, applause and laughter, and Myka is surprised to find that Bennet’s Gymnastics Aria, as Kelly has dubbed it, is up next already.

_“Uncle, I want you to give me my Count, still today.”_

Helena is imperious and petulant and Myka is determined to meet her at every corner.

“ _Very well_ ,” Bennet says.

“ _My Lord_!” Myka brushes past Helena, but then ignores her. _“I desire Arminda to be my wife. Still today.”_

Bennet nods. _“Better!”_ He does a great show of gradually losing his patience while the audience laughs more and more and Ramiro and Arminda snipe at each other, forgetting about the bailiff in between them as they push him back and forth. Helena hoists herself up on Bennet’s arm, her feet kicking at air, to yell at Myka in another unrehearsed move, and Myka pushes that arm down and watches her tumble to the floor in return, only to have Helena take a swipe at her legs.

There is enough applause by the end of the scene that Myka can take a few deep breaths to steady herself while Helena scowls at her, seated close enough to touch. They correct their position in the spotlights outlining them and Myka’s limbs are warm with exertion, bruises on her knees and her shirt clinging to her back. She is both alert and at ease, a state she remembers from the end of long fencing lessons in school, and she had known then that she would win the final duel.

 _“Ramiro, let’s be real.”_ Helena looks at her and even after two hours on stage, everything about her posture is raw and alert. _“What do you hope to gain from a woman who despises you instead of loving you?”_

 _“That you will finally come back to it and remember,”_ Myka says softly as she moves closer. “ _My sincere love for you, your promises…”_

 _“Yes, that’s all true,”_ Helena breathes, the aggression tempered for the moment, and when Myka moves to straddle her, Helena does a maddening little stretch, enough to throw Myka off balance and push her firmly across Helena’s hips. _“But I have no more time for this. Since I can’t love you anymore…”_

Helena shifts against Myka with every breath, every sustained phrase. And Myka should not imagine Helena like this, underneath her with wisps of hair plastered to her face for reasons that are not make-up or the heat of the spotlights, should not imagine Helena moving like this because Myka is touching her, moving because she cannot resist her.

 _“Get over me,”_ Helena demands and her hand moves up Myka’s thigh, her grip firm.

Any more, Myka thinks, any more of this and she will forget her next line.

_“Get over it.”_

When Helena pulls herself upright, Myka finds herself reaching out to steady her and they suddenly hold on to each other.

 _“…and leave.”_ Helena sighs, nearly against Myka’s lips, and Myka stays in place.

 _“Just to appease you.”_ Myka delivers her line in a murmur, still close enough to kiss, and she can feel the sound of her voice reflect against the skin of Helena’s jaw, her neck. _“Cruel one, I’m fleeing from your gaze.”_ She stumbles to her feet over two barren chords from the cembalo and finds that her legs are unsteady. Helena still kneels, looking up at her, and Myka hesitates.

_“Perhaps you’ll regret it someday.”_

It is Ramiro who is still in love with Arminda, and it is Myka wondering whether Helena will ever look back at this summer and wonder what might have been beyond these power games. She turns around on her own, needing no prompt to close this chapter for Ramiro, and for herself.

Helena is behind her in seconds, her hand moving along Myka’s shoulder, beckoning her back, and when Myka yields, they stare at each other, caught up in resentment and yet unable to pull away.

Abigail’s last chord fades into silence and then, instead of pushing her away with _“Do what you will”_ , Helena throws herself forward and kisses Myka.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Operatic Cliff Notes:  
> \- Chapter Quote:  
> So in the same instant,  
> in that sweet moment in which I find you,  
> I will have to lose you?  
> \- As said before, I haven't actually done a production in Aix, so the logistics might be off.  
> \- The Royal theatre at Drottningholm, Sweden, is one of the best-preserved 18th century theatres and houses a lovely summer festival. Their "giardiniera" of 1990 (?) got me into the opera in the first place. The Operalia competition is an important singing competition founded and led by Placido Domingo.  
> \- I am not kidding about the opening night gifts.  
> \- Beta Thanks to The Duchess, and also to Paula (who protested the cliffhanger)  
> \- regarding the posting schedule: I will do my best, but the next two weekends are conferences and papers, so it might be a while again (I don't think the cliffhanger is quite so bad)


	14. Chapter 14

 

 _"Alme belle innamorate_  
_Dite voi che amor provate_  
_Se resister più si può."_

(Mozart, _La finta giardiniera_ )

 

 

It is not a closed-mouthed stage kiss.

Helena is actually kissing her, with enough force to have Myka take a step backwards. Lips move against her own, and Myka tastes wetness beyond the stage lipstick.

Helena’s hand curls into her shirt, her knuckles grazing the bandage that flattens Myka’s breasts and Myka is caught up in a rush of shock and excitement, unable to grasp at either emotion, while her senses implode into one another.

And just when Myka's brain catches up and it occurs to her that this is a bit much even for Helena, when she manages to separate Arminda and Ramiro – it makes sense to have them kiss here, the way they play them – from Helena and Myka – and how that makes a shocking amount of sense to Myka, too – the moment is over, and Helena pushes her away.

_“Do what you will!”_

Myka stumbles forward as Helena storms offstage. Her mouth is torn open and the evening breeze is cool against her lips. It takes her a second to remember that Helena is supposed to be with her for the aria, that this is not how they staged it, that she is alone in front of a live audience with no rehearsed moves. She takes a steadying breath, and then another, and makes eye contact with Hugo, who hurtles into her aria.

_“Sure, run into somebody else’s arms, you mean, ungrateful woman…!”_

Among racing strings, Myka fights to command her breathing, and her fury wins out. Her voice opens up easily, powerful enough to wield the phrases like sword blows.

_“Mean! Ungrateful!”_

What the hell is Helena thinking, to cap off the scene like this? Is it another instance of being somewhere in the dark, of touching Myka under some kind of pretext, only to go back to being blasé about it by daylight? Is this just another ploy to get both of them deeper into character? Myka does not know where Arminda ends and Helena begins anymore. Although she wants Helena – wants her on a level beyond her comprehension – she does not want her like this, not as half an illusion up on a stage.

_“…that’s all I’ll ever be to you!”_

Despair and outrage flood into the music, shape it, and Myka finally owns this aria. Tonight, it is her strongest piece, better even than _Dolce d’amor compagna_. But despite the applause it garners her in the end, Helena has no right to spring something like that kiss on her, on opening night to boot, and Myka hates her for it, and hates herself for wanting to do it all over again.

She waits for her last appearance on the side stage and watches the big duet between Sam and Amanda, listens to how they shape their individual phrases, until their voices blend in jubilant togetherness and it echoes through Myka as longing when she steps back onto the scene. Arminda is arguing with the bailiff over following through with the wedding to the Count. Sam and Amanda, preceded by a gleeful Todd, arrive as newlyweds instead and when Arminda calls it _“Treachery!”_ , it is the choked retort of someone who has lost the last barrier between herself and her own desires.

Arminda apologizes to Sandrina, and it is very much an imperious Helena apologizing to a wary Amanda, two primadonnas where there is just space for one, before Helena's eyes land on Myka. “If it is all right with you, Uncle…”

But even though Helena addresses Bennet, she does not look at him. She remains focused on Myka, confused and hopeful at once. “The faithful Ramiro…”

It is a run-of-the-mill happy ending, in tune with the convention of marrying off everyone on stage within the last few minutes, no matter how sudden the couplings, but Helena is throwing all that she has into making Arminda’s change of heart believable. Her eyes remain on Myka – on Ramiro – even while the Bailiff gives his consent and Myka crosses the stage to walk right into that beseeching gaze.

_“One could not ask for more.”_

“He’s such a lawyer”, both Helena and Claudia had quipped at this line – Myka’s last – but Myka gives it a breathless, overwhelmed note. She bends down to kiss Helena’s hand, just as they have staged it. Over her head, Helena is supposed to stare at Sam longingly once more, while Kelly jumps into Todd’s arms. Myka thinks she could sculpt Helena’s hand, the slender width of it, its knuckles and the veins that run across its back, just from holding it blindly in her own.

It is the briefest, very much professional touch of lips against skin, but her lips still tingle when Hugo leads them into the final piece. She breathes in and projects, allows her voice to rise once more, to build within her and then move beyond her body, tempered by her lips, her jaw, the focus behind her eyes.

Helena stands next to her and for the last few bars, she leans into her, lightly, leaving her head tucked against Myka’s shoulder. The lights go out, and as their glow fades, Myka can make out the stars, huge above the rows of seats. Helena is still leaning against her, her breaths coming fast.

Applause swells up and the lights flare back to life.

“Perfect!” Helena is reaching for her hand, for Todd’s on the other side for a first bow. “Can you sense it?” She is not talking to Myka, or to anyone in particular. “We got them!”

Then Helena is all over the place, squeezing raised hands, accepting congratulatory kisses to her cheek from Todd, from Bennet. She still has an arm around Kelly as they regroup for the solo curtains and she hugs Kelly briefly, laughing with relief as they rush forward for another bow.

Myka can only stare at Helena as she soaks in the cheers, drunk on the reaction from beyond the stage.

A show, Myka reminds herself. It is only a show. The people left and right of her pull up her arms for another bow and she lets it happen, she does not even know who is next to her now. She struggles to surface and break out of the story's hold that keeps the relieved smiles and the cheers around her at a distance. The applause tells her that the night has been a triumph, but she has not yet arrived in the moment. Only when she steps forward for her first solo bow, amid cheers and even some hollering, the fog lifts and her smile joins the others.

Directly after her, Helena makes the applause well up once more. Myka watches her sink down into a curtsey that would be over the top for just about anyone else, but not for Helena. She is standing far enough to the left to see Helena’s face, not just her back, and Helena, to her surprise, looks humble.

One curtain turns into another, until Myka loses count. Everything is a whirlwind. Someone presses a glass of champagne into her hand. Abigail is hugging Helena and Myka can see her laugh across Helena’s shoulder. Helena’s blouse is made of smooth silk that shifts under Abigail’s fingers and Myka takes a hasty sip of her drink, feels the pearling echo against the roof of her mouth.

“Myka Bering.” Sam’s agent – Linda’s colleague – has suddenly appeared next to her and clinks his glass against hers. “Congratulations! A fine performance. I am very glad we took you on!”

He has to shout a little above the cacophony of voices, of laughter still tinged with nerves. Myka nods and remembers to smile. She takes another sip of champagne. A bit ahead, closer to the building, Artie is smiling widely. It is a sight so unfamiliar that Myka is momentarily baffled. He has every reason to be happy with the show – even with the second act finale – although Dame Vanessa standing at his side is perhaps just as much the cause.

“There will be critique,” a grinning Claudia announces when she drapes an arm around Myka from behind. She waves a little pile of notes that she balances in the same hand as her glass and a bit of champagne splashes down onto the courtyard. “Whoops.”

“I better change out of this, in case you plan to bathe me in champagne.”

“Sssh, don’t give Helena any more ideas!” Claudia points at Helena, who is angling her head so Abigail can say something into her ear. “Though I’ve got to say, Bering, you two came up with a few nice additions. Artie will kill you both, but still. Very nice.”

Myka tries to make her way through the stage crowd towards the dressing rooms, and not think of those additions. Flashlights go off, making her squint, and she has to balance her glass left and right as people stop her to shake her hand or clap her on the shoulder. She takes a sip too large, thirsty after the evening under the heat of the spotlights, and sputters, the liquid suddenly sharp against her throat.

Instead of going in to change, though, she walks on past the courtyard and suddenly she can hear her own steps on the ground again. The air out here is cool and dewy against her face still flushed with the evening’s labor and success. She draws up Ramiro’s collar. Just a minute of quiet to catch up to herself, then she will head inside and change before the wardrobe department throws a fit.

Steps and voices are coming her way and Myka can make out the bright rectangles of program books. She steps deeper into the shadows and unexpectedly finds herself close to the small estate chapel. Without knowing why, she moves past the barricaded front, further along the wall, and ducks below the wooden beams of the decayed backdoor.

Myka is enveloped by deeper, stiller cool, in which she can hear her own breathing, and it takes a minute until her eyes adjust to the darkness.

She remembers sneaking in here before, weeks ago. Another minute, Myka tells herself. She does not want to share a dressing room with Helena right now, does not want to witness how Helena sheds her role as easily as layers of silk and leather, when all Myka can think of is kissing her.

“Myka...?”

With a soft brush of fabric against stone, another shadow pushes into the room.

“You,” Myka sighs, because of course it has to be Helena.

“I saw you leave.”

Helena leans against the wall opposite Myka, her costume glimmering like an apparition. Myka has kneeled over her in this outfit less than an hour ago. Her palms tingle with the memory of the silk blouse, and she wants to grab Helena and shake her until the fabric tears under her hands.

“You are still mad at me."

"Ramiro _was_ mad." Myka corrects her. "Now, _I_ am mad." She takes a breath, hears it leave her body. "Why the hell did you do that? What were you thinking?!"

"You never sang it better," Helena says.

"That's not the point," Myka bites out, although perhaps it is. "You left me hanging on stage! And why on earth did you suddenly spring that kiss on me?!"

There is not enough light to make out Helena's eyes across the small room, but Myka can see how she blinks.

"Because it made perfect sense." When there is silence, Helena adds, "Doesn’t it?"

"Of course it does," Myka says bitterly. The question is on the tip of her tongue whether Helena kisses Sam like this, too, in the second act, but she does not want to know the answer.

"...and because I wanted to," Helena says quietly.

They are two shadowed figures, opposite one another in the dark of the chapel, and Myka sighs again.

"What do you want, Helena?"

Helena takes three small steps forward. "But you must know –" She stops and looks at Myka, and at the closer distance, the black of her hair separates from the color of the night around them.

Myka stands very still, and Helena steps closer, speaks again. "You know. You have to know."

The chapel is small, and when Helena stretches out a hand – her left, the uninjured one – Myka is within her reach.

"Around you, my hands don't obey me," Helena observes softly. "They know far too much of what I want." Her fingers hover close to Myka's hip, graze it ever so slightly. "This... for this, I am indebted to Arminda, that she let me – I am in such debt –"

"You don't need Arminda."

Myka is caught up in the gleam of Helena's eyes, black against small corners of white, framed by the stark lines of stage make-up.

"The beach," Helena breathes, and the air curls against Myka's face.

"The be..." Myka clears her throat. "The beach?"

"Since we went to the beach," Helena murmurs and her voice drags across Myka's skin. "You played volleyball, stretched out in the air, and I could not think... You took a walk with Sam... With Sam!" Helena scowls in a way that sends heat along Myka's cheeks. "You stood and bent over to roll up your trousers. You must have done it on purpose... And I wanted to push them back down so you would have to do it all over again."

Helena only has to lean in the tiniest bit to have her lips brush against Myka's.

"And your little fencing displays..."

"'This does not work', you said."

"Not for the scene," Helena murmurs. "But on me..." Her hand, at last, lands more firmly on Myka's hip, but it does not stay still. Her fingers move restlessly, as if they could burrow into skin the way her breath moves beyond Myka's lips when she speaks. "The first time I heard you sing _Dolce d'amor_ , I thought I would die."

"You did not even look at me afterwards!"

Myka tries very hard to think, but Helena's lips are so soft and her voice is so hard to resist.

"You see what would have happened, don't you?"

The only thing Myka sees is a flash of stars when Helena's hand moves higher onto Myka's waist with the same insistence.

"I did not _want_ to lose my head - " Helena exhales, and the air trembles. "But if you would - at all - be amenable..."

Her breath hitches and Myka realizes that her own hands have found purchase on Helena's blouse, wrinkling the elusive silk as they clench and unclench with the beat of her pulse, and then she is kissing Helena with weeks and weeks of pent-up longing.

She kisses her, kisses her more passionately because in part she still wants to shake Helena, but Helena simply sinks against her and her mouth is slick and hot, and Myka herself is shaking. She is aware of the sweet, powdery taste of their stage make-up and the uneven stone wall against her back when Helena presses into her more firmly.

Helena's fingers tug deftly on Myka's shirt, pull it free, and Myka shivers at the rough cool of the stone and the heat of Helena's palm. The hand moves up, fingers skimming across Myka's ribs and then pulling uselessly at the bandage that keeps Myka's breasts bound, and Myka thinks she will pass out at the frustrated little moan Helena utters into their kiss.

Helena's fingers move downwards again, along the waistband of Myka's pants, and find the two buttons that hold them in place.

"We shouldn't –" Myka gasps, and she is terrified by how much she wants it regardless. "This is a chapel!"

"We sang Mozart in here," Helena hums, her lips once more against Myka's.

"Mozart is sacred."

Mozart, after this night, is a saint Myka will pray to for the rest of her days.

"And is this not sacred?" Helena's teeth drag across Myka's lower lip. "God knows I would worship you."

Her hands move again, onto Myka's hips, and then slide down her thighs as Helena sinks to her knees.

"Helena –"

Myka's cheeks burn with embarrassment, and with something beyond that, more visceral than shame.

"In here, people will have voiced their most fervent desires," Helena murmurs, and now her breath is hot against Myka's stomach. "Will you hear mine?"

She undoes the first bottom with no qualms whatsoever and Myka clumsily grasps at her shoulders, fumbling to pull her upright. The second button pops when Helena's mouth returns to hers, with an insistence that renders Myka lightheaded.

It is very likely that Helena is still on a performance high, in a place beyond control. It is very likely that Myka does not care.

Through the haze, she feels a sharp tug on her waistband, gasps at the sensation, a breath that Helena swallows with a hum, then fingers slide beyond the pressed wool of her pants and beyond her underwear.

Myka's breathing stutters, stops and then shapes a completely unreasonable sound at the back of her throat. Her head falls back against the chapel wall with enough force to leave a bruise, tomorrow, but now Helena's lips move along her neck, mouthing feverish whispers against her skin.

Myka pulls at silk, finally finds skin and pulls Helena closer, pushes Helena's wrist into her skin with the movement and feels arm muscles driving the fingers below. One of her legs ends up between Helena's in a half-conscious motion and Helena sags at the contact, the weight of her hips dropping into it.

Myka is a runner. Her muscles know instinctively how to tense along her thigh, how to hold up until she will quiver with the strain. Helena's fingers falter in reaction, lose their rhythm for a few seconds that have Myka suspended around the single thought of _more_. She fumbles for the clasp of Helena's pants with one hand and despairs at the long line of small hooks and buttons. There is no space, yet she pushes onward, feels the fabric tear even as the waistband cuts into the back of her hand, the back of her forearm. Her fingers touch wetness just as Helena's tongue swipes along Myka's neck.

Helena stumbles, leaving Myka gasping for contact once more.

"It's not my good hand," Helena breathes against her ear, half in apology, and Myka wants to say that this is more than good, and that she is not sure she would survive anything else, but she does not get farther than drawing breath, than cool air curling into her throat, then Helena's teeth graze her skin and her hips move frantically against Myka's fingers. Her torso curves forward, a sensation of yet more warmth against Myka's arm that is trembling with the effort.

Helena's breath comes against Myka's neck in hot gushes, quickening, until it turns erratic even as her hips go still, and then spasm into Myka's touch with enough force to twist Myka's wrist in a way that should hurt, but Myka cannot think beyond Helena's breath against her throat, and it is not just her arm that trembles now.

Her other hand moves blindly across Helena's back, grasping for a hold as every one of her nerves curls inwards, winding tighter and tighter. Her shoulders hunch forward on a helpless exhale, closer into the space of their embrace, always closer towards Helena, and she explodes against Helena's fingers, into a touch both too much and not enough, never enough.

Myka's legs are shaking. She gulps in too much air and her throat is parched. Helena's breaths still come against her neck when Myka raises her head and blinks her eyes open, at Helena's dark gaze close to her own, Helena disheveled and with her lips still parted, dusted with an incredulous smile, and Myka wants to undo every hook on Helena's clothes, brush all fabric away and clothe her in her embrace instead.

It is too dark to see much, yet the dark is light enough for Myka to feel vulnerable, laid bare before Helena's curious gaze.

"We're still in costume."

"More or less," Helena agrees and her voice carries the past few minutes on its sound. It is enough to leave Myka breathless again.

"Wardrobe will kill us," she manages to get out, even though she wants to say something else, something for which she has no words.

"And we are likely expected at whatever reception the festival has planned," Helena says with regret.

There is a moment of awkwardness as they take hold of their own limbs again, withdraw hands and straighten legs.

Myka stretches her fingers and moves her wrist and the numbness fades with sharp prickling. She watches Helena wipe her hand across her belly, feels her world narrow and expand again at the sight and her body is betraying what she wants before it even turns into thought, swaying towards Helena, and again she forgets everything beyond this wanting.

"Well, then…" Helena says and her voice is still low and close, moving within the space they share.

Myka nods. "Right."

She moves to fasten her pants, shifting uncomfortably against a touch that is damp cloth, that is not Helena.

Helena, her bandaged hand at her side, does not even bother trying to rearrange her wrinkled blouse. She looks a final time at Myka and leans in to press a quick kiss against her cheek, then she ducks out of the chapel first, out into the night. Myka follows quickly.

They have barely stumbled back onto the path when approaching steps mingle with their own and Myka nervously recognizes yet more program books in the hands of what has the be the last group of festival audience members, only six or seven people. They have recognized the wayward singers before Myka can even worry about wrinkled shirts and smeared make-up.

“Oh, you were wonderful, both of you! Thank you so much!”

“Would you mind signing my program book, Ms. Wells?”

“Such performances!”

Apparently, the night is dark enough to gloss over their disheveled state, but Myka fervently hopes that nobody wants to shake her hand right now. She stands back half a step while Helena exchanges a few polite phrases and signs her name. Myka looks on and clutches her hands into fists, but feels the last traces of Helena’s arousal drying on her skin in the night-time air.

It is not cooler than before out here, yet when the enthusiastic visitors hurry on towards buses and cars, Myka wraps her arms around herself and shivers uncontrollably.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Operatic Cliff Notes:
> 
> \- Chapter Quote:  
> Beautiful souls in love,  
> Say, you who taste love,  
> If one could resist any longer.  
> \- If anything about this chapter makes any sense at all, it is thanks to the Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who once more graciously stepped up to play the Strauss to my Hofmannsthal (or the Hofmannsthal to my Strauss?) for this chapter.  
> \- Since I have never worked at Aix, I don't know whether the receptions for the productions at Domaine de Grand St. Jean happen out there, or back in town.  
> \- Also since I never worked at Aix: I am only guessing at the locations of the dressings rooms and floors, and there are various possible reception areas.  
> \- There is one liberty that I am taking with the costuming in this chapter: heading back to the dressing room to change is the first thing that happens after the show ends and it reflects in the architecture of most opera houses. In this case, the venue is older than the genre of opera, and, also, in this chapter I wanted certain characters to remain in costume for a bit longer for narrative purposes. But, no, that usually does not happen, just as first glasses of champagne are usually not served to the singers until they reappear in offstage galas for the reception. In case of the Domaine, it could be logistically possible, though.  
> \- The chapel. *sigh* Initially, I mixed up up buildings on grainy googlemaps outlays and placed the chapel a bit further from the central courtyard than it is. In addition, Google Street View for the Domaine is a recent thing (or must have overlooked it when I first plotted the story), and my initial assumptions may have been somewhat off: the chapel is in better shape than I describe, and any description of the interior is purely fictional since I could not find any image material.  
> \- On a side note, I adjusted the number of chapters. There will definitely be more than twenty. Possibly even more than thirty. I know where and how this will end, I just don't know how exactly the chapters will split up.  
> 


	15. Chapter 15

_ah qual tumulto  
provo nel sen allor che m'è vicino._

(Mozart, _La finta giardiniera_ )

 

They take the back staircase, Myka in the lead and standing as tall as possible to shield a disheveled Helena behind her. The corridor is deserted as they take clandestine steps past costume racks that are already heavy with the wardrobes of their colleagues.

“Where on God’s green earth have you two been?!”

The lights of the dressing room are as harsh as the voice of Jeannine from the wardrobe department who regards them with her hands on her hips before she lifts them in horror.

“The silk! What have you done to the silk?!”

Myka chances a glance at the mirrors as she and Helena stand duly chastised. Helena’s eyes are still wide, touching slower upon the things around her, and Myka herself has to suppress a smile born of giddiness and nerves. Both their shirts are creased beyond recognition, her own with stains of gray along its sides. Helena’s hairstyle has lost all severity, her own ponytail is mostly undone and when it comes to their make-up, Myka is not sure whether she is looking at last remnants of lipstick, or the visible marks of Helena’s insistence.

“What have you…” Jeannine rounds them, still aghast while she takes in the damage and their skittish gazes. “Oh no, you did _not_!”

Myka is mortified and, no, there is not much foundation left on her features to conceal her blush. Helena tries to stare down Jeannine in defiance, but Jeannine suddenly breaks out in laughter.

“I cannot believe you two!” She shakes her head. “Quick, get out of these. I need all the time I can get to put them back into shape!”

She points an imperious finger at the hamper in the corner and tuts when she leans forward to inspect a small tear on Myka’s shirt.

Over Jeannine’s head, Myka looks at Helena, who mirrors her embarrassed grin. Jeannine keeps muttering to herself when she leans in to unfasten the bindings around Myka’s chest with professional efficiency, and Myka flinches at hands that are not Helena’s, that do not move against her skin with seamless impatience.

“On the first night of the run!” Jeannine rifles through hangers on the rack behind them. “They do not pay me enough to work on junior productions.”

Helena shoots Myka another complicit glance and Myka has to bite the inside of her cheek to silence the giggle that is threatening to spill forward. They form a counterpoint to Jeannine’s complaints, and both their bodies still brim with sensations of a darker, quieter space.

Those fade with the brush of fresh clothes against her skin and Myka sits down and reaches for the bottle of oily lotion that will remove the remains of her make-up. They sit apart, with Kelly’s and Amanda’s seats in between them, and the room seems bigger than ever before.

Myka scrubs at her face with a wet towel and when she brushes it along her neck, the lingering echo of Helena’s lips catches her off guard. She takes an uneven breath and hurries to slip her dress – the little black one – over her head, with her back turned to Helena. Although she has conditioned herself sternly not to look at Helena in here, she startles at the minuscule sound of cloth against skin behind her and her eyes betray her. She catches Helena tugging a sheath of violet silk into place along her thighs and Myka’s palms unhelpfully remember crinkled silk of a lighter shade, remember pushing it out of the way and having it fall against the back of her hands while her fingers move against Helena’s skin.

When Jeannine finally slips out of the room, they could speak, but they do not. Myka reaches for words and finds none. Yet the silence does not feel empty to her, it is rich with the cadence of Helena’s breathing, which Myka’s ears are still attuned to, accompanied by the muted scrape of a hairbrush and the snap of a compact.

Myka gazes at her reflection and struggles to cover up the sensuous knowledge looking back at her. She applies foundation to cheeks still flushed, meticulously colors eyelashes above pupils still large and smoothes color along lips still kiss-swollen and without need for it.

From the corner of her eyes, she sees Helena raise her arms to twist her hair into a softer variant of Arminda’s style. Then Helena stands and clears her throat, just as Myka finishes dusting powder onto what she hopes will look like regained composure.

“Ready to face the music?”

Helena’s voice still rings with intimacy and Myka does not want to leave this room, where the crumpled shirts on their hangers are tangible reminders of what has happened between them.

Myka nods, brushes her palms over the smooth fall of her hair, and stands. When she turns to face Helena, the air leaves her lungs without any volition.

Helena is, indeed, breathtaking.

Her dress shimmers softly, the gloss of her hair borrows from the night that has followed them in here. The curves of her arms, slender as they are, conceal a strength Myka intimately remembers now, and the pale red of her lips does not look like lipstick, but like the imprint of all the kisses they have shared earlier.

Myka opens her mouth, tries to remember how to draw breath, and Helena takes a small step closer.

“You…”

“Bering! Wells!!”

Claudia’s voice cuts between them and steps clatter along the hallway outside.

“I swear if they are not in there right now, I will find them and rip their heads off!!” Claudia tears the door open, in black pants and a pair of heels for once. “….Ah, there you are.”

She rushes them outside, down the staircase, with her shoes punctuating every step.

“Where the hell have you been? We have been looking for you all over the place!”

“Is the chairman of the board getting antsy?” Helena asks instead, slow amusement coloring her tone.

“No, but his wife is on her fourth glass of champagne already.” Claudia pushes them out of the building and into the crowded courtyard, where mild applause swells at their arrival. “And she knows far too much about everyone present.”

They are herded over to their colleagues, whose gazes range from curious to annoyed, and there is the ring of metal against glass.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, now that everyone finally has a drink, let us raise our glasses in celebration of tonight’s production!”

The chairman launches into the prepared laudation. He does not even need flashcards, Myka notes, while she is handed a glass of champagne. She has to applaud around it when Hugo is being called forward and she quickly takes a few sips so she won’t spill any of it onto her dress.

Hugo is still formally dressed, but his hair has returned to its customary state of disarray and Myka finds herself thinking that she will miss this, that she will miss all of them.

“….and our exceptional cast of young singers!”

“I’m older than your wife,” Bennet mutters under his breath, but he smiles broadly as he is called forward and takes a small, sketched bow among the applause of the audience members and officials that fill the courtyard.

Kelly is handed not one, but two bouquets of flowers and squeals with delight when she is presented. As a blushing Todd steps forward, no one applauds harder than his parents.

Myka’s gaze wanders along the line and finds Helena, touches upon the sight of her as one would behold a blossom in a barren landscape: with reverence and, more than looking, hearkening as though being addressed, moved to the core at the generous presence of beauty.

“Oh hell, no,” Claudia grinds out next to her and Myka is startled out of her reverie. “Myka Bering, don’t tell me you’ve held out until opening night, only to do something stupid now! – With the entire run ahead! Why did you do this to me?!”

Myka is relieved of the need to answer because at that moment, Artie gets called forward and motions for Claudia to take the bow with him, even as the chairman insists on mentioning “…the added pleasure of welcoming Lady Vanessa Calder, although we could, sadly, not convince her to take a starring role this year!”

“But that is not the point,” Lady Vanessa says, smiling like an iceberg. Myka hopes that Lady Vanessa will never look at her the way she looks at the chairman now. “We are here to praise the wonderful young colleagues who have made this evening such a success.”

“Of course we are also hoping to have Artie back with us for another summer,” the chairman tacks on. “Perhaps we can talk about titles later tonight, Artie?”

“Forget the titles, can we talk about a better ballet floor?” Artie says, also loud enough to be widely heard.

“That depends,” Claudia mutters as she nods at the applause surrounding them. “Do we still want to work here?”

Sam is the next one to be introduced and Myka is surprised to find her glass of champagne already empty. Catering is quick to give her another one, just in time to toast Helena, who accepts the wave of applause with a warm smile and a hand to her chest.

It is her uninjured hand, and Myka is still transfixed by the sight of it, the length and slight curve of the fingers, when she herself is called upon.

“…I myself was surprised to see such a convincing and, dare I say, dashing young man on stage tonight,” the chairman announces jovially. “We are delighted to welcome Myka Bering, who, as you can see, is just as much a revelation out of those trousers!”

Myka’s smile falters when she steps to the center of the courtyard and she tries to cover it by half a bow, tries to concentrate on the friendly faces and the applause around her.

“Sexist creep,” Claudia mutters when Myka lines up next to her, but what comforts Myka even more is Helena’s furious glare, at Claudia’s other side.

“Now that’s just bollocks!”

The attention shifts to Amanda with the final call for the leading lady of the evening. Myka takes another sip of champagne and wishes for a glass of water instead. They have tomorrow off, but she needs to be careful and the alcohol is already warming up her throat in a way it should not.

“Wells!” Artie barks with the pleasantries laid to rest. “There are notes! And guess what they say, _not in the script_.”

“Which scene now?” Helena asks.

“Have your pick. I am sure it will fit.” Artie points an accusing finger at Helena. “You asked me to put you onstage for the third Ramiro aria!”

“Yes,” Helena says, and nods demurely. “But you were right. It works better with me storming off, I know everything I need by then.”

At Artie’s side, Lady Vanessa is smothering a smile, while giving Helena a knowing look. Then, to Myka’s surprise, she offers, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” and steps closer.

“To me?”

Myka still feels as if she has to look up when she talks to her.

“I am teaching a master class in the fall,” Vanessa says without further preamble. “At the Royal College of Music. I thought you might like to apply. I would enjoy working with you.”

“Of course,” Myka stammers and holds more firmly onto her glass of champagne. “I will have to talk to my agent,” she remembers to say then. “But that would be fantastic. Of course!”

“Where are you under contract?”

“Berg and Rosen,” Myka says and it does not yet fall smoothly off her tongue.

Vanessa nods thoughtfully. “I don’t think that will be a problem. Perhaps they can organize you a little thing on the side. I think Tony is doing a small-size _Elijah_ at Royal Albert Hall, and last I heard, he was still complaining about casting the second solo quartet.”

Myka’s head is swimming.

“Oh, and did Artie mention that he’ll be doing _Grimes_ with ENO? I’ve already told Helena –“

Helena has been drawn into another conversation, but next to Vanessa, Artie clears his throat. “I would work with you again,” he allows. “But if it’s both you and Wells, my cardiologist will have a word with me.”

“ _I_ will have a word with you,” Vanessa says and gently places a hand on his arm.

The gesture makes Myka glance again at Helena, who is beleaguered by people brandishing program books among excited chatter and the high clank of the champagne glasses.

As if sensing her attention, Helena turns and meets Myka’s eyes, and Myka is back in the chapel, Helena's breath against her throat. She curls her hand into a fist, overwhelmed by the memory, by the noise around her, by desire and doubt.

“Myka?” Artie studies her face with concern. “About you checking with your management, about 2018?”

“It’s been quite a night, hasn’t it?” Vanessa intervenes while Myka hastens to apologize. “I am sure Artie has your contact data.”

“It can be a little overwhelming, hm?” Sam appears at Myka’s shoulder and hands her a glass. “These receptions, I mean.” Myka takes a small sip and tastes yet more champagne. “It’s normal to feel spent,” he says generously and Myka is not sure whether she wants to bristle at him or laugh at him.

“You did really well tonight.”

He sounds sincere, and now Myka does bristle. She knows she was good.

Sam waves over his agent for a toast – “To Berg and Rosen and their roster!” – and Myka takes another, polite sip from her glass. She is constantly aware of Helena at the edge of her vision, beyond Sam, and now she wants to laugh at herself, at how she tried so hard to will her attraction to Sam into something more, when it all it takes is Helena saying her name to dissolve into desire.

She looks at Sam, and her body does not remember ever feeling drawn to him. Even as she tries to recall it, she has to will her eyes to stay on him and not move to the deep violet across the courtyard.

Then Myka is whisked away by a few admiring audience members and is glad to sign program books instead of continuing conversation with Sam.

“We’ve been here every year since ’83,” an elderly lady tells Myka proudly. “Jessye Norman, you know. In _Hippolyte_.”

Myka nods and does not know what to say to that, so she takes another sip of her drink. Exhaustion is catching up to her, yet she is still tossed back and forth by nerves and excitement. She knows she should eat some of the hors d’oeuvres that go past her, but she is not hungry. Her stomach is in knots.

Across the courtyard, she catches a flash of violet silk and she is caught up in another kind of hunger, her mouth dry and her tongue heavy with champagne, her skin still singing with Helena’s touch.

A group of admirers, and one or two people that Myka remembers from the festival office, surround Helena, who laughs.

“And there was June Anderson, in _Armida_ ,” Myka is told. “In ’89.” She cannot stop looking at Helena.

“In ’88,” the woman’s husband corrects, and Myka hums in polite agreement, noting with alarm that her throat is beginning to feel numb. She looks around for a bottle of water but sees none. When she turns back, the violet centering the landscape of her vision has disappeared and Myka searches for the color around the courtyard before she can stop herself. Flashbulbs go off, and Myka shuts her eyes, dazzled.

A hand curves along her shoulder, and when Myka turns, Helena is standing before her, bearing a glass and a bottle of water.

“You look like you could use some of this.”

It is a staged gesture, for an audience of one, and Myka is breathless again, her cheeks aflame with more than champagne.

Helena presses the glass into Myka’s hand, ignoring the conversation continuing around them – “And the _Orlando_ , in ‘95. Handel, of course. Not Vivaldi. ” – She balances the plastic bottle against her bandaged wrist and unscrews the cap with her left hand.

Even the brief, sharp fizzle of air escaping the bottle plays against Myka’s heightened senses that swim with the nearness of Helena. Their fingers brush as Helena takes the glass again, pours, and hands it to Myka. The action turns into a gesture in the way Helena moves, solemn in comparison to the champagne chatter.

“Here you go.”

Helena’s eyes roam over Myka’s face, while Myka thirstily tips up the glass, but Helena’s expression is gentle now.

“Still, the oddity of trouser roles…” One of Myka’s reminiscing admirers shakes her head.

A newcomer next to her agrees. “And the things they have them do these days! – It worked better when they still left some things to the imagination. Now all you see is girls… “

Their attention returns to Myka with curiosity. “Just how do you prepare for these roles?”

Myka blinks in disbelief. “Just as I prepare for any other?” She turns the empty glass in her hands and tries not to look too closely at the mirth dancing in Helena’s eyes.

“Yes, but you have to pretend to be a man,” a woman with a flattened head of elaborate coiffure says. “Being in love with a woman!”

Helena moves closer to Myka’s shoulder, her proximity and her smile equally distracting, so that Myka struggles to keep a straight face and find a diplomatic answer.

“We have to pretend being in love in many roles.”

The coiffed woman seems to realize that she has crossed a boundary. “And now, like this…” She gestures awkwardly at Myka in her black outfit, the neckline of which pushes a modest amount of cleavage into view. “That is a lovely dress.”

“Yes, it is,” Helena agrees with a nod. She turns to Myka, as if she were assessing her for the first time tonight. “Lovely.” She leans in casually, her lips suddenly close to Myka’s ear. “But lovelier out of it, I imagine.”

She straightens. Her fingers come to rest at the small of Myka’s back, moving in small strokes, out of sight of the debating audience members.

“And I _have_ imagined that.”

Myka’s glass hits the paving stones and splinters. The sound scatters the group around them.

“I am so sorry!”

Myka looks down at tiny splinters across her shoes, and at larger shards along the stones and gravel. The only one who has not flinched away is Helena, who is still looking at her, still smiling.

“I’ll get a dustpan,” Myka says, looking around for a waiter. “Or alert the catering, at least.”

She hurries away from Helena’s smile that is threatening to unravel her. When she returns with a waiter at her heels, she finds both Helena and the pieces of glass already gone.

Myka shakes more hands; she makes sure to drink more water and nibbles methodically on things proffered to her on trays. By the time the transports arrive for them, Myka is ready to call it a night. She leans against the car window and absently listens to Amanda pulling it together for one last, persistent journalist from one of the bigger classical music outlets. He insists that he is not there on business and Amanda plays along, but he is still talking by the time the cars spill them out onto the lawn of the guesthouse.

“One last drink?” Kelly suggests. “I’ll just get these flowers into water -”

She walks ahead and nearly collides with a shadow sitting on the stairs.

Pete, a hoodie drawn over his head against the chill, stands and shakes out his legs.

“You waited up?”

Myka is touched, even though she knows that it is not about her.

“Nah, I just wanted to get some air,” Pete says, but he looks past her at Amanda, who is still talking to the journalist. “You go on in, you must be beat.”

Myka moves up the stairs, with Kelly ahead of her.

“I still have a bottle of tequila,” Kelly announces and she edges sideways into her room, mindful of her flowers. “See you downstairs in a minute!”

Myka turns, and Helena is there, opening the door of her room, with only a stretch of dimly-lit corridor between them.

Myka hesitates, then she catches the small yawn that Helena tries to suppress.

“The adrenaline is wearing off, hm?”

It’s a soft throwaway line, fitted to the low light around them.

“I guess it is.” Helena chuckles ruefully. “I don’t think I’ll be heading down again.”

“You want to skip that last drink?” Myka asks, even though she feels a yawn tug at the edges of her own jaw.

“I’ve had enough champagne,” Helena admits, tired and gentle and beautiful. “Another drink, is that what you want now?”

“I want to kiss you goodnight,” Myka hears herself say.

Helena does not say anything at all. She takes a shaky breath – Myka can see the uneven rise and fall of her shoulders – and only when Myka looks down, uncertain of what she is given, she hears Helena sigh, “Please.”

Exhilaration flares along Myka’s tired limbs and sends her forward, yet the touch she intends is awkward. Both her hands are full of bouquets, as are Helena’s, and when she leans in, above the fragrance and the crackle of paper and cellophane, she reaches only the corner of Helena’s mouth.

Helena’s eyes close regardless, and Myka longs for more, for Helena beyond the delicate barrier of flowers. She leans back. When Helena opens her eyes, her gaze is melting, and its warmth reminds Myka of hands in the chapel, reaching for her in the dark.

Now, Helena does not move.

Myka needs sleep, her voice needs rest, but her body is overriding itself, aligning around a deeper need.

She shifts her load, and reaches for Helena.

“Come.”

Myka pushes the door to her room open with a foot and maneuvers them both inside, kicks it shut again. Her flowers, her jacket, she shrugs onto the bureau in the corner, casts the glow of the small desk lamp upon the assortment and themselves. Then she reaches for Helena’s coat, her bouquets. She takes a single, decisive step into Helena’s space to uncoil the scarf around Helena’s neck, sees that step echo in Helena’s widening eyes, in the upward tilt of her face, but Helena has run out of bravado.

The scent of the flowers behind them is loud when Myka raises her hands, cups Helena’s face, and brings their lips together.

It is the third time she is kissing Helena, all within a span of hours, but it is now, in the exhausted quiet of her room, that the world tilts on its axis, rights itself to a new North, and Myka wants it never to shift back again. She does not believe it could.

In the chapel, in the dark, Myka has remained standing with Helena’s hands on her, has met the urgency of that touch, yet it is the tenderness of Helena’s kiss in this moment that undoes her. Helena’s arms wind around her neck and Myka’s knees buckle. She sinks back onto the bed, and Helena keeps kissing her.

Fingers smoothe around the side of her neck, along her collarbone, follow the steep curve of her neckline.

“The dress truly looks lovely on you,” Helena murmurs. “I had hoped you would wear it again tonight.”

Myka looks at her, and her world begins and ends with Helena’s eyes.

Those eyes look down, follow the path of Helena’s hands as they drop to Myka’s waist and then slowly upward again, along Myka’s ribs, until finally they graze the sides of her breasts, now yielding to her touch.

Myka’s breath catches along with Helena’s.

“I also still hope to be the one to take it off of you tonight.”

Helena leans forward and brushes her lips just to the inside of the neckline, slides the fabric out of the way with her tongue, and Myka is wide awake.

She reaches out to tangle her fingers in Helena’s hair, sees her hand and pauses its path. Her fingertips just need to stretch a little more to touch, yet they hover, lingering on this threshold she knows she is about to cross.

She knows she should say something, but she has no words to match this. And it is easier to tip Helena’s head up and kiss her again, to revel in the slightly sore softness of their lips and lose herself against her, than to wonder whether Helena will still want to undress her tomorrow.

It is easier to lean into Helena’s hands, to push her into the bedding with her own weight, than to admit that she wants this beyond tonight, that she wants to keep kissing Helena tomorrow, and the day after that.

Helena’s lips move along Myka’s neck and Myka cannot fathom a reality beyond this.

Fingers slide through her hair, then find the clasp of her dress. It takes Helena two tries to get it open, limited as she is with her bandaged hand, but when the fabric falls away, she reaches up for Myka mindless of her injury.

Myka’s head falls forward on a whimper when Helena cups her breasts, and when Helena’s mouth follows the path of her fingers, her arms give out.

Long minutes pass before she remembers to finish undressing, to find herself clad only in the smolder of Helena’s gaze. Her own hands move to brush violet silk up Helena’s legs, blindly at first, until the sensation draws her eyes to it and Myka watches the smooth fabric gather between her fingers, follows its path around the curve of Helena’s knee, and when Helena props up a leg, the silk slides down the length of her thigh on its own, pooling against her hip.

Myka stills, taken with awe. She does not dare to look up into Helena’s eyes, afraid to give herself away. For it is Helena whose skin she is revealing, but it is Myka who feels laid bare to the core, and she has to move to escape the magnitude that is tugging at her senses.

Her hands are clumsy with need, trembling when she pulls at last layers of cloth and finally sinks into Helena, skin against skin. One thigh comes to rest in between Helena’s and she tenses its muscles again, feels Helena strain into the pressure, and it is already something she remembers, fitting her body to Helena’s like this.

Helena sighs and it is too much. Myka hides her face against Helena’s neck; her teeth are starting to chatter, tears prick at the corners of her eyes, and if Helena does not put her hands on her right now, she will pass out. But when Helena’s arms wrap around her back, Myka feels she will pass out either way.

It is listening, really listening, to the Mass in B minor _Sanctus_ for the first time, to lose gravity in the soprano line: floating, suspended. It is singing _Voi che sapete_ for the first time with an orchestra and understanding that her voice is made for this, that she is made for this. And now, Helena: she is made for Helena, too.

Helena’s mouth searches her face, finds her mouth and opens it, and then her hands move again, drawn across Myka’s skin in a boundless array of possibility. She pushes Myka up, struggles to rise on her own elbows, unguarded and undone by Myka’s touch, and she seems, impossibly, even more beautiful.

Helena’s fingers curl into Myka’s arms, her eyes growing yet a shade darker, and Myka rocks her hips, slow and insistent, enough to topple Helena, who falls back onto the pillow with a breathless laugh.

It turns into a moan when Myka’s lips move along Helena’s throat, when her tongue follows that same path, tasting the first hint of sweat, and Helena archs her neck in response. They are beyond speech, before speech, in a place before feelings have names.

Myka tears herself away for one second, for one look that sears itself into her memory, and all the moments that will come will be measured against this: Helena’s hair has come undone; it spills across the pillow like a polished shadow. Her skin is flushed with renewed promise, her make-up smeared once more, and her breath has already shifted to a new rhythm, anchored by the movement of their hips, the pressure of Myka’s thigh.

Myka raises herself on one arm and trails her fingers down Helena’s chest, the slope of her belly, watches transfixed at the ripple of skin under her touch. Her fingers dip lower and Helena’s eyes lose focus.

Then Helena’s right arm comes up, wraps around Myka’s neck with decisive strength and pulls her down into her body, into the pace of their hips.

It has only been hours, but it has been too long, insufferably long already. Myka’s body becomes its contact with Helena’s and her only knowledge is the touch of those hands.

She pushes deeper, and Helena’s breath flutters against her neck.

“Myka – ”

It comes out as a moan, and Myka wants to hear it again.

And she does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Operatic cliff Notes:
> 
> \- Chapter Quote:  
> "Oh, what turmoil do I feel in my chest now that (s)he is near me".  
> \- On a more general note: I have re-uploaded all chapters with minor edits (mostly typos, some narrative corrections) and also added an extensive list of "in what YT production of "Finta Giardiniera" at which minute mark can I find which aria/recit mentioned in this story" in the notes to chapter 8. (They are also listed underneath the comments to chapter 13).  
> \- Payment on junior productions: the junior singers, also at Aix, are, as far as I understand, not paid at all - you do it for the honor, and because it's publicity, and if you say no, someone else will do it and get the publicity (not so different from being an untenured academic, really)  
> \- Opening night receptions: I have heard every argument and sleazy comment surrounding singers of trouser roles detailed in this chapter in person over the years. This still happens (not everywhere, thankfully).  
> \- Royal College of Music: one of the best Music Schools of the UK (some would say the best, but I'm particular to Guildhall myself), situated in London.  
> \- "Tony": Dame Vanessa is likely referring to conductor Sir Antonio Pappano.  
> \- "Elijah"/"Elias": huge romantic oratorio by Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z-wsKU-N8dY)  
> \- "Grimes": "Peter Grimes" is a 20th century opery by Benjamin Britten, surrounded by (male) queer themes and with an ample cast of smaller roles.  
> \- ENO: English National Opera (London), known for performing international repertory in English. (https://www.eno.org/)  
> \- "Hyppolite et Aricie", a 1733 opera by Jean-Philippe Rameau - staged in 1983 in Aix with Jessye Norman, category-defying soprano force of nature. And since YT is a wondrous place, that production is now available in full: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ajVGZWGuiAE (pt. 1), https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bm3OpgFt03E (pt. 2)  
> \- "Armida", a 1817 opera by Gioacchino Rossini, performed in Aix in 1988 with star dramatic coloratura soprano June Anderson.  
> \- "Orlando", a popular opera sujet, also for George Frederic Handel (1733), performed in Aix in 1995, and for Antonio Vivaldi (as "Orlando furioso", 1727).  
> \- a glass of water: does Helena know "Arabella"?  
> "Arabella" by Strauss (in relation to gender and a few other things highly problematic, even for opera) ends with the title heroine, Arabella, sealing her engagement to Mandryka by offering him a drink of water (a tradition linked to his culture), which he accepts, to then smash the glass to seal their engagement: "As sure as no one will ever drink from this glass again, you and I are linked forever." For more actual lyrics (culminating in "Take me as I am"), check here as of minute 8:00 (English subs): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dbl3r6pBneg or here, more recent (German subs), as of minute 4:45: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vy9JsdTWOAk&list=PL7yWJyiMaKzaneObyW02bmuJQFSfVwrDg You bet Helena knows "Arabella", even if it will probably never be her fach.  
> \- Mass in B minor, by Johann Sebastian Bach, one of the most important oratorios. "Sanctus" and its floating triplets: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FREW-OboB2A I had a reference in there to the descending bassline as of 1:03 - but, as my beta pointed out, no matter how much it sounds like purpose found, it took away from the moment, so it's not in the story. But it's still amazing music and would fit with Myka's perception of self at that moment.  
> \- "Voi che sapete". THE mezzo trouser role signature aria from Mozart's "Le nozze di Figaro" (1786), all about falling in love with women. Have your pick here: https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=%22Voi+che+sapete%22  
> \- A thanks from Richard to Hugo: On this chapter, more than on any other so far, my wonderful beta, The Duchess, has left a notable imprint. We discussed this one back and forth for weeks, pouring over word choices and phrasings and moods, and I can never thank her enough.  
> \- Regarding the next chapters, it is possible that there will be another small break in posting, due to paper deadlines and teaching load. If you want some opera in the meantime, however, I warmly recommend watching "Mitridate" over at Arte Concert: (http://concert.arte.tv/de/mitridate-von-mozart-im-theatre-des-champs-elysees) Dear God, the trouser role. Dear God, the soprano. Dear God, the both of them.


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